


The Pan-American High School Scholarship Pageant Competition

by leahalexis



Series: The Pan-American High School 'verse [1]
Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 30,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahalexis/pseuds/leahalexis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blue Ridge High School is pleased to announce its representatives to this year’s Pan-American High School Scholarship Pageant Competition: juniors Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I have always been kind of embarrassingly fascinated by high school AUs. I’m also (less embarrassingly) fascinated by the class issues and relationships—and, okay, everything else—in the Hunger Games. So I ended up a little fixated with thinking through how some of those class issues and relationships might play out in a high school context, in our world. Although, of course, any story set in the modern day US necessarily loses the kind of life-and-death tension the Hunger Games provide in Panem. 
> 
> Rating is set to T; for the moment, language is the worst offender. But I’m anticipating some adult themes and probably some adult encounters as the story progresses, which may raise that rating!
> 
> Character list will expand as the story progresses.

Last period of the day is shop class. It’s in the basement of the B building, in one of the oldest parts of the high school; the classroom is always a little cooler, the air staler, than in the academic classrooms. It's my favorite place on campus.

I didn’t exactly choose shop, but I needed an elective and it was the only thing that fit into my schedule. And it turned out that I liked it. I like the deafening whir of the saws, the muscle and concentration it takes to guide blocks of wood into the saw teeth and turn what I can see in my head into something real—even if it’s just the birdhouse we’ve been working on the last few class periods. It’s a break from the stress of regular classes.

Plus, shop class is where, last fall, I met Gale.

Gale’s a senior, one year ahead of me, and he’s like the big brother I never had.

Gale and I even look like brother and sister: same dark hair, same olive skin, same gray eyes. Same tall, rangy build. The first time I brought him home for dinner, my mother spent twenty minutes quizzing him on his grandparents’ names. I apologized, and Gale just laughed, slung his arm around my shoulders, and ruffled my hair.

If sometimes I wonder about more, well . . . it’s just because my mother keeps asking. To be honest, even if I thought there was something else there, our friendship’s too important to risk. I literally can’t imagine this school—or my life—without Gale. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him next year.

“Hey, Catnip,” he greets me as he slings his backpack onto the floor beside mine and sits down on to the empty stool to my right.

It’s a minute or two after the bell, but Mr. Adams usually doesn’t mind us being a little tardy, as long as we get our work done.

“Hey,” I say, and look up from the lines I’m sketching out on wood to smile. I push a piece toward him. “Grabbed you some plywood.”

“My hero,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his, and I roll my eyes.

“Shut up and get to work.”

He grins. “Yes ma’am.”

Class passes quickly; it always does. When the final bell rings, Gale asks if I want a ride home, but I tell him no. I’m staying after to work on the bookshelf I’m making for my little sister Prim.

Mr. Adams is good about that—letting us stay after and use the equipment in the workshop, as long as we can pay for our own wood. It took two months of overtime to save up to buy the pieces I needed, and I spent nearly two weeks on the plans. Now I just have to cut everything and put it all together, sand it and paint it and finish it, in time for Prim’s birthday next month.

As Gale and I part ways at the classroom door, I catch a glimpse of wrestling team captain Peeta Mellark just over Gale’s shoulder, standing in the hallway outside. When our eyes meet, he ducks his head, shifts his bag higher on his shoulder, and keeps walking.

I shake my head, go back to my table, and get back to work on Prim’s bookshelf.

//

I stay working in the shop room for almost two hours before I pack up to go. I’ve timed it so that I have just enough time to get home on the city bus, grab dinner, and change before I have to get back on the bus and head to work. I lock up, double-checking the door, before heading toward the school parking lot; the bus stop for my line is at the back of the school grounds.

I hate the school bus. Even when I leave school right after it ends, I usually take the city bus. It’s faster, and since I have to buy a monthly pass to get to work anyway, it doesn’t cost me anything.

I’m just past the gym when I hear my name.

“Everdeen! Hey—Everdeen! Katniss!”

I pause and look back over my shoulder. Peeta Mellark is jogging toward me, waving something dark in one hand. My own hand goes automatically to the top of my bag; my sweater’s falled off. Peeta must have seen it on the ground and picked it up.

I’m a little surprised he knows my first name, to be honest. We have exactly one class together, AP English, where our teacher refers to all his students only by their last names. I know his, of course, but everybody does. It’s always all over the school paper, or on the announcements. People talk about him. I guess people talk about me sometimes too. Just not in the same way.

Peeta looks flushed when he reaches me; probably from the exertion of practice, still. “Hey,” he says, and extends my sweater. “I think you dropped this.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, taking it and tying it more securely to my bag.

When I look back up, he’s still standing there, hands shoved in his pockets. His hair is damp from the gym showers.

“Do you want a tip or something?” I snap.

His eyes get wide and startled, and he blinks. “Uh. No. I just—”

“Well?” I asked, when he doesn’t continue.

“I just—I’m done with wrestling practice and I’m heading out, so I—I wondered if you—needed a ride, or something?”

Oh. Charity. Of course.

“I don’t _need_ anything,” I say. “Especially not from you.”

His face goes bright red, but not in embarrassment, I don’t think. He looks angry. “You don’t have to get snippy,” he forces out.

My hand clenches on the strap of my backpack. “Fuck you,” I say. “I didn’t ask you to—”

Just then a voice rings out across the otherwise empty school grounds. “Ms. Everdeen! Mr. Mellark! Language!”

We both turn. It’s the guidance counselor, Ms. Trinket, teetering down the sidewalk toward us as quickly as her 4-inch heels and dark pink pencil skirt will let her.

“That is _not_ the way young ladies and gentleman behave at school!” she says primly. She lifts one hand to pat her blond curls.

I glance at Peeta to see how he’s reacting. He looks shamefaced. I’m still scowling; I can’t seem to stop.

“Sorry, Ms. Trinket,” Peeta says.

“It’s not school hours,” I say.

“But it is school grounds,” Ms. Trinket says, “and school rules still apply. Which means I am marching both of you right now to Principal Undersee’s office.”

//

Sitting across Principal Undersee’s desk in his office, next to Peeta, Ms. Trinket looming over us all with a tight smile on her heavily made-up face, I resign myself to the fact I am going to miss my bus. It wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t also mean I’d be skipping dinner.

“Mr. Mellark, I wouldn’t have expected to see you here. And Ms. Everdeen, I believe this the first for you in a while. Fight on school grounds?”

“I didn’t hit him,” I protest, at the same time Peeta says, “I didn’t touch her!”

“Thank you—both—for the clarification,” Principal Undersee says. His tone is dry. “Ms. Trinket, I assume you were thinking a few days’ after school detention?”

I sag back in my chair, and can hear Peeta’s expulsion of breath from a few feet away. He sounds as frustrated as I feel—probably because he has practice after school every day. I don’t want anything taking away the time I have to work on Prim’s present. It’s not like I have a lot of free time as it is.

“Or a day’s in-school suspension?”

Even worse. That goes on our records. And mine’s spotty enough as it is. If I want to go to college—not that I think I do; I just like my options open—I can’t handle another mark like that.

“Or,” Ms. Trinket begins, and I look at her sharply. I don’t like the pleased look on her face or the calculating gleam in her eye. “Perhaps there’s another way we can work this out.”


	2. Two

“What are you thinking, Ms. Trinket?” Principal Undersee asks.

Peeta Mellark and I are sitting in his office after school hours, awaiting our punishment. Ms. Trinket gives us a pursed-lip smile.

“Well, Principal Undersee, as you know, we are in need of two . . . volunteers for this year’s district Pan-American High School Scholarship Pageant Competition.” Ms. Trinket’s hands flutter excitedly. “Mr. Mellark is exactly the sort of young man we would want to represent our school. And Ms. Everdeen . . .” She grimaces briefly. “Well, Ms. Everdeen will do.”

I know I should be offended. I just don’t know how offended, since I have no idea what Ms. Trinket is talking about. Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to do it.

“Clever,” Principal Undersee chuckles. “It _would_ save us the trouble of holding a vote.”

“And the punishment is a fitting one for the crime.” Ms. Trinket sniffs. “Fighting is so antisocial. The competition will teach the both of you some better manners.”

“Can I just take the detention?” Peeta mutters from beside me. He looks small, the expression on his face miserable; I can’t tell if it was a joke or not.

“What is this American Scholarship Pageant thing?” I ask. Not that I’m particularly interested in manners.

“The Pan-American High School Scholarship Pageant Competition,” Ms. Trinket says, enunciating each syllable clearly, pride in her voice, “is an annual contest in which young men and women of breeding and refinement from across the continent compete to bring honor to their schools and districts.”

“The schools that participate receive a not insignificant amount of funding,” Principal Undersee adds. He’s gazing at us placidly over his hands, which rest, clasped, on his desk. “The winning school and district receive an additional boon.”

“And what do the students get?” I ask.

“Why, the privilege of representing their schools, of course!” Ms. Trinket says.

“There’s prize money, for the winner,” Peeta says. I turn to look at him. “A college scholarship, officially. But they give it to you the day you graduate high school. No strings attached.”

“How much?” I ask, looking back at Principal Undersee.

Ms. Trinket answers, sounding disapproving. “Fifty thousand, if you must know.”

 _Fifty thousand dollars_.

I’m thinking not of me, but of Prim. Prim, who loves school, and loves learning. Prim, who wants to be a doctor, when our mother can’t afford to send even one of us to community college on the money she earns cleaning houses and working part time at the local hospice center.

“What would we have to do?” I ask slowly.

“Oh, not much at all!” Ms. Trinket rushes to say. I try not to flinch. “There’s an academic section, and fitness element. And of course the pageant component, but that’s been _heavily_ deemphasized.”

I consider her words. It doesn’t sound too impossible. I’m not great in school, but that’s more about time than ability. I’m in shape; I have to be, for work. And the pageant part . . . well, at least I’m thin. If it’s as hard to get students to participate everywhere else as it seems to be here, I might have a chance.

Of course, I’d also have to beat Peeta. Wrestling star Peeta, who’s always on the honor roll, and isn’t exactly hurting for potential dates.

I hear Ms. Trinket’s words again in my head: _Mr. Mellark is exactly the sort of young man we would want to represent our school._ Stubbornly, I ignore it, push it down.

“And it’s that or suspension?” I ask.

“If you agree to participate, and follow through, we can forgo suspension, yes,” Principal Undersee agrees cautiously.

“I’m in,” I say.

“And Mr. Mellark?” Ms. Trinket asks eagerly.

We all turn to Peeta. He has a shell-shocked look on his face. From my acceptance? From the whole situation? “I—I guess I’m in, too,” he says.

“Excellent!” Ms. Trinket trills, clapping her hands together once and sweeping immediately toward the door. “So I’ll see you both bright and early Saturday morning to begin your training!”

Peeta’s stunned eyes meet mine. I turn further in my chair; Ms. Trinket is already out the door.

Her voice floats back to us. “8 AM at the front of the school, Katniss dear. Peeta. Hasta Luego! Arrivederci!”

No one said anything about _training_. I grit my teeth, already regretting my decision. How many other surprises do we have to look forward to?

Principal Undersee clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s taken care of. You’re both free to go.”

“Thank you,” Peeta says, sounding dazed. He gets up slowly.

I’m more than ready to get out of there, but there’s something I have to do first. Trying to keep the anger out of my voice, I ask, “May I use your phone?”

Principal Undersee nudges it toward me. I scoot forward in my chair, pick up the receiver, and dial home, angling my body slightly away for privacy—or what little I can get.

Prim answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, little duck,” I say, my voice softening immediately. I can almost hear her smile on the other end.

“Hi, Katniss.”

“I’m not going to make it home until after work today, okay? Tell Mom.”

It’s Thursday. The one day a week Mom always makes it home for dinner. And I’m missing it.

“I made macaroni,” Prim says, sounding disappointed.

Prim’s four years younger than I am, twelve years old and nearly done with her seventh grade year. It’s hard to start thinking of her as that grown up; I still feel guilty, getting home late, because it means leaving her home alone. Our mother is at the hospice center most nights, so it’s usually just the two of us. It’s been that way for a long time. Since Dad died.

The thought of her making mac and cheese, for me, for the three of us to eat together, makes me smile.

“Save some for me,” I say. “I’ll heat it up after.”

“I will,” Prim says. Then, “Be safe.”

“Always,” I tell her.

I hang up the phone and collect my bag. Principal Undersee gives me a nod; he’s distracted, already on to other things. I leave.

Peeta is hovering right outside the door.  For a moment I’m irritated at him for being there—for probably overhearing my call, intentionally or not. I don’t understand why he bothered to wait.

I walk past him without acknowledging his presence.

Peeta is a few paces behind me, but he catches up quick, and we walk together back the way we came. When we get to the student parking lot, he pauses briefly, but he doesn’t say anything.

It’s awkward.

“See you,” I say, finally.

“See you,” he echoes. He makes a face. “Bright and early on Saturday.”

“In English class,” I correct him, not thinking, and a smile breaks across his face. It makes me uncomfortable.

“Bye,” I say, a little stiffly, and turn and head quickly for the bus stop.

Behind me, I hear Peeta open and close the door to his truck and start the engine.

I have a twenty-minute wait.


	3. Three

One of the privileges of being an upperclassman is permission to eat lunch outside. It’s a small freedom, and an inconsequential one. We still can’t leave campus. We can’t have food brought in. We’re still eating the same food we always have, just 50 feet further away and without climate control. But it feels freeing anyway, and I take advantage of it as often as the weather allows. Sometimes even when it doesn’t.

It’s nice out today, sunny, in the 60s, and I bypass the cafeteria entirely and head for the benches at the far edge of the courtyard, where Madge Undersee is already sitting. Silently, Madge tears her peanut butter sandwich in two and hands me half. Just as silently, I take it. I know better than to argue, at this point. Madge can be as stubborn as I am.

Madge and I met back in November, in the library. It had finally gotten too cold for me to stand being outside for the whole lunch period, and I talked my English teacher out of a pass to the library rather than subject myself to the lunchroom. I’d stumbled over Madge sitting on the floor in a quiet corner, eating a fruit cup, the remains of the rest of her lunch spread out around her. Her shoes were off and her feet tucked underneath her. We’ve spent our lunch period together every day since. First in the library, then out in the courtyard once it began to warm back up. We don’t always talk much, but its nice just to have somebody there.

I’ve never asked why she eats alone, and she’s never asked me. I know she could eat with the other juniors if she wanted. She looks just like them: well-dressed, blond. Like she belongs in a show about high school rather than an actual high school. And her father’s the principal. The assistant principal’s son, Bobby Cray, is always at the same table as the cheerleaders and the hocks and student government—and it’s definitely not because of his personality.

As if he senses my thoughts, Bobby turns, and when he sees me, he narrows his eyes. “Hey,” he sneers, plenty loud enough to carry across the courtyard. “What’re you looking at, dyke?”

“Never you, shithead,” I call back. I hold up my middle finger for good measure, and then turn back to Madge.

The corner of her mouth is turned up.

“Classy,” she says, but there’s amusement in her voice.

“You know it,” I say cheerfully.

There’s some sort of scuffle behind me at the popular table. It’s the kind of thing I’m used to ignoring, but Madge’s eyes shift toward the noise, over my shoulder, and I turn on reflex. I’m just in time to see Peeta Mellark stalking away from the table. Peeta again. It’s like he’s everywhere, all of a sudden.

I take a bite of my half a sandwich, chew, and swallow thoughtfully.

“You know anything about Peeta Mellark?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Madge shrugs and sips her juice box. “I guess. We dated for a few weeks, back in middle school.”

I’m glad I already swallowed.

I furrow my brow, trying to imagine it. They’d look pretty together, I guess. But I can’t imagine them having an actual conversation. Madge is so quiet, and Peeta’s so. Peeta.

In English class this morning, he’d looked up when I walked in and smiled at me. Like we were—friends.

Our seats in English are arranged alphabetically, which puts me several rows to the left and a few seats forward from him. It’s something I’d never paid attention to before, and it was strange to be suddenly so conscious of it—to notice that I could see him, barely, out of the corner of my eyes if I turned my head even slightly to the right. To be so conscious of it that I spent the rest of class sitting stiffly, faced forward in my chair, afraid to look as if I were looking at him.

“I did date, you know,” Madge says in reply to my silence, “before.”

I shrug uncomfortably, not wanting to explain my train of thought.

“And anyway,” she continues, “we were, like, twelve. It’s not even really dating, then. Not for real. It’s more like playacting what the older kids do. Peeta was nice. We held hands.”

“Were his clammy?” I ask.

Madge throws a pretzel stick at me. I am conscious of it mostly as a waste of a good pretzel stick, a waste of food. It doesn’t hurt.

“Why would you even think of asking me that? His hands were fine. Why the sudden interest in Peeta Mellark, anyway?”

I end up telling her the whole story from yesterday: my dropped sweater, Peeta and my fight (“Katniss,” Madge says, “he was just trying to be nice, with the whole ride thing!” She's exasperated with me. “Of course that’s the part you’d fixate on,” I grumble). Her father and Ms. Trinket’s “punishment.”

When I get to the part about the pageant, Madge starts to laugh.

 _Gale_ , I think, _wouldn’t have laughed._ Though I haven’t yet tested that theory.

“I’m sorry,” Madge says, “but she’s been following me around after school whenever I stray to catch a ride with Dad, trying to talk me into participating. She’s been so desperate! But I never thought she’d go so far as to use it as punishment.”

“You’d be a much better person for it than I am,” I say, and I mean it sincerely. She would be.

Madge shakes her head. “You have a lot more charisma than I do. They’ll love you.”

“Like everyone around here does?” I mutter.

“This is high school. They’re high schoolers. The pageant competition is about appealing to adults. And—” She hesitates, then forges ahead. “—you have a great story.”

 _A great story_. Before I can figure out exactly why that bothers me, or how much, the bell rings, and Madge sighs and stands.

“It’ll be okay, Katniss,” she says, and smiles at me timidly. “Let me know if can do anything to help, okay?”

When I open my mouth, she adds, “ _Besides_  asking Dad to let you off the hook. You know he doesn’t listen to me.”

I head off to class feeling troubled. If anything, I’m now dreading my first "training" session tomorrow morning even more.


	4. Four

That day after school I ask Gale if he can give me a ride home. On Fridays Mr. Adams has shop club after the bell anyway; he’s asked me a couple of times if I want to sign up, but I’m not really much of a joiner, I guess. Part of what I like about shop is the quiet, and shop club is never quiet. I tried working during their meeting once a few months ago, but ended up just having to leave. Too many people. Too many distractions.

The sky is cloudless and the sun still bright, the temperature still almost warm, and Gale drives us towards home with the windows down. It means it’s too loud to talk, but I’m not exactly excited to share the story of yesterday’s after-school activities, and it’s nice to spend a few minutes in my day just enjoying it: the air from the open windows and the sun on my skin. I feel peaceful and sleepy and warm, and I lean back in the passenger seat and close my eyes.

Gale parks on the street outside our apartment, and we head inside together. Prim won’t be home on the bus for another half hour, so I make us both half a ham and American cheese sandwich and pour two glasses of the unsweetened ice tea I find in the fridge door. There’s still a little bit of Prim’s mac and cheese left, too, but I save it in case she wants it later.

Usually we hang out and do homework or watch bad afternoon talk shows until Gale has to pick up his brothers from their afterschool program. I know Gale has a paper due, and I have reading to catch up on; we both pull our books out and settle in at the kitchen table just like always.

Except instead of getting to work, or starting on his sandwich, Gale is . . . watching me. I swallow the first bite of mine quickly and ask, “What?”

“I heard you ended up in the principal’s office yesterday after school,” Gale says. His voice is neutral, but his jaw looks tight.

I make a face. I wanted to tell him about yesterday, but this is not the way I wanted that conversation to start. “Are you my mom now?”

“With Mellark.”

“And you’re upset I got in trouble with somebody other than you?” I ask.

Gale’s forehead creases. “You know he got into a fight today at school. With Bobby Cray.” He sounds annoyed.

“And?” I ask.

“It was about you.”

“That,” I say after a few long seconds, “is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Gale scowls.

“I was _there_ ,” I tell him. “At lunch? I saw the part at the end where Peeta left the table. And, first, it’s not like anybody threw a punch.” Does anyone at that school even know what the word _fight_ means? “And second, there’s no way it had anything to do with me. I was across the courtyard with Madge the whole time.”

If anything, Madge’s name makes Gale scowl even deeper.

“That’s what I heard,” he says stubbornly.

 _Since when do you listen to what people say?_ I’m about to ask, but the front door opens and Prim is home.

She catches sight of us as she enters the kitchen, and lights up. “Gale!” she cries, launching herself at him.

He meets her halfway, picks her up, and swings her around.

“Hey there, Rosie,” he says in return, laughing, as if we hadn’t just been almost fighting.

“Want some mac and cheese?” Prim asks, heading over to the fridge as soon as Gale puts her back down.

I’m thankful for Prim’s arrival, for breaking the tension between Gale and me, but I’m also left frustrated, unable to demand that Gale explain why he cared so much about Peeta. I’m still uneasy as I say goodbye to him an hour and a half later, and the uncomfortable feeling stays with me even while Prim and I make dinner.

It isn’t until I slide quietly into bed next to Prim that night that I realize I never actually told Gale about my new extracurricular. And now it’s a conversation I’m even less eager to have.

 


	5. Five

My alarm goes off, low but insistent, at 6 am. Prim stirs beside me, but after a moment, she stills, and settles more deeply into sleep. I smile. She looks younger again, in sleep, blond hair loose around her face and shoulders. I shower quickly, dress, and slip out the front door.

The streets are quiet this time of the morning, and the bus is empty except for me, a homeless man huddled in the corner, and two night shift nurses I see sometimes during the week. I spend most of the ride watching the world rush by out the window, gray and misty.

I get off at my stop with more than twenty minutes to spare. I’m loathe to risk getting stuck making conversation with Ms. Trinket, but it’s too chilly out for just the denim jacket I grabbed from the closet, and it might be worth it if it means getting inside. I head for the front, but no such luck. There’s no one else here and the doors are locked. I make a note to just be late next time.

Almost ten minutes later a car pulls up front and parks. Peeta’s, I remember from earlier that week. Peeta hops down from the truck’s cab and slams the door. He looks warm; he’s wearing a bomber jacket and scarf and even a pair of gloves. I can see his breath puff out in front of him as he climbs the steps to where I’m sitting at the very top, cold hands tucked between my knees.

He slants me a glance as he sits down beside me. “Nobody here yet?”

I shake my head, my teeth clenched to keep from chattering.

After another minute, Peeta shifts, and I look over to see him unwinding the scarf from around his neck. He thrusts it into my lap without saying anything, and, surprised, I grab it before it can fall. It’s warm from his body heat, and soft; some sort of chunky knit in a cool gray.

Slowly, I wrap it around my own neck, uncomfortable with the idea, but too cold to resist. I feel even more uncomfortable when I see the pleased look he’s trying to hide. I remember, suddenly, what Gale said yesterday about him and Cray. It still seems ridiculous. But for a second, I wonder.

By the time Ms. Trinket mounts the steps in her heels and hose and pencil skirt, puffy bronze jacket belted absurdly tight at the waist, I’m feeling almost comfortable. Reluctantly, I untangle my hands from where they’re fisted in the scarf for warmth, to follow Ms. Trinket in. Peeta holds the door.

As the door closes, I lift the scarf over my head and try to hand it back. “Keep it,” Peeta says, and shrugs. “It’s cold in the auditorium. You can give it back to me on Monday.”

He’s right about the auditorium, and it’s where Ms. Trinket is headed. So I awkwardly nod my assent, and wind it back around my neck.

“Children!” Ms. Trinket calls from halfway down the hall, not even bothering to look back at us. “Quickly, please! We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

Peeta makes a noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a laugh and a snort. I can’t help smiling a little in response.

This whole thing is absurd.

This time, when Ms. Trinket says “Children!” we follow.

//

Twenty minutes later, it’s not just absurd. It’s horrifying.

Ms. Trinket—“Effie, please, dears,” she insisted, “as long as it isn’t school hours”—has written up a schedule for the next six Sundays leading up to the day of the pageant, plus every Wednesday, and every day, almost, the week of.

“We have so much to prepare for!” Ms. Trinket is saying, excitement brightening her voice.

Peeta and I are sitting in the front row of rickety old auditorium seats. Ms. Trinket is standing on the stage above us.

“We’ll need to clean you both up, of course. Find you each a talent. Drill on the academic portions. Discuss interviews. I’ve hired consultants—“

Peeta and I exchange an incredulous look.

“—for style, and strategy.” Her lips are pinched as she glances severely at her watch. “Strategy should have been here already.”

Sitting here, listening to Ms. Trinket talk about all this, is overwhelming like Principal Undersee’s office was overwhelming. I said I’d do this—I want to win that prize, for Prim, and I want to stay not suspended—and I don’t go back on my promises. But I also can’t lose my job. Or flunk out. And then there’s Prim’s birthday present . . .

“Ms.— Effie,” Peeta says beside me, “are _all_ of these practices really . . . necessary? I’ve got wrestling practice after school and I’m sure Katniss—”

“Do you want to have _any_ chance of _winning_ , young man?” Ms. Trinket’s tone is alarmingly shrill.

Peeta flinches, but answers, “Actually, I don’t really—”

“They are every one necessary, and not nearly enough! Some students have been training for months already—years!”

That seems kind of doubtful to me, to be honest.

“Whether you want to win or not, you will _not_ embarrass me. This is my _reputation_ we are talking about. The reputation of _your_ _school_. So you will be at _every_ practice, no matter what it takes to make that happen. Do you understand me? You will _not_ waste my time. Or I’ll be _having words_ with Principal Undersee.”

Ms. Trinket has gone from high-strung and ridiculous to actually kind of frightening in the space of just a few words. By the end, both Peeta and I are sitting straight up in our seats. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am: that we should have taken the suspension.

Then—“Don’t scare the poor kids too much,” a rough, low voice drawls out from the back of the auditorium. “You still need ’em to be able to perform.”

Ms. Trinket’s penciled-in brows arch further as she sucks in her cheeks, but the tension in the room immediately deflates. “Haymitch,” she says severely. “You’re late.”

I tentatively glance over my shoulder. I can just make out the not very tall figure of a man inside the back doors, ambling—limping?—slowly up the aisle toward us. He’s wearing sunglasses, I realize as he gets closer. Sunglasses, a denim jacket as worse for the wear as mine, frayed jeans, and dusty boots. His hair is buzzed close to his skull, not quite military; his cheeks are gaunt.

He grins; it’s only a little friendlier than if he’d bared his teeth. “I prefer to think of myself as early for next week.”

“Children,” Ms. Trinket says, as if he hadn’t spoken, “this is Mr. Haymitch Abernathy. He knows this pageant and its judges as well as the judges do themselves.”

In response, Haymitch lifts the flask he produces from his back pocket in a toast, and takes a long swig before securing the cap and returning it to its original home. He pushes his sunglass up on top of his head and eyes us critically. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot. I bristle under his gaze.

“So, this year’s recruits,” he says, grimacing, like the look of us offends him—or else like his stomach is rebelling. The stale smell of alcohol that clings to him—to his skin, to his clothes—is obvious even from this far away. His breath, I imagine, is sour with vomit, and I don’t intend to get close enough to him to find out.

“This is Katniss Everdeen,” Ms. Trinket introduces us, “and Peeta Mellark.”

“Fucked up names,” Haymitch grunts. He drops into a seat across the aisle and two rows back, kicks up his feet to rest on the back of the seats in front of him, and lowers his sunglasses back over his eyes. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. As you were. Etc.”

I expect Ms. Trinket to be furious, but she just looks resigned. Maybe a little disappointed, too, like this was what she’d expected, but she’d still hoped for something more.

“Mr. Abernathy here will be consulting during your training. He will also accompany us to the competition itself, to assist in—well, to assist in whatever capacity we may require.”

Haymitch snorts.

// 

By the time the end of our session arrives, at noon, Ms. Trinket has outlined the chief components of the competition, in order of importance. It’s immediately clear that either Ms. Trinket had been lying in Principal Undersee’s office when she said the “pageant” part had been heavily de-emphasized in recent years, or else she was telling the truth and the whole “scholarship” part used to be even more of a fraud.

Most important, by an insultingly small margin, is the academic component, which is worth 30%. What it is precisely, says Ms. Trinket, changes from year to year.

Second is fitness, worth 25%. I assume this actually means attractiveness, since Ms. Trinket mentions something about _leotards_.

Third, the interview portion, also worth 25%.

And finally, talent, at 20%—which Ms. Trinket says is less about actually being talented and more about poise and “grace under pressure,” which sounds an awful lot like bullshit to me.

Haymitch Abernathy has been quiet most of the morning—quiet enough that he could have been asleep the whole time and we wouldn’t have known, except that every twenty minutes he would suddenly stand and walk the length of the auditorium aisle before sitting back down with an audible grunt.

Ms. Trinket ignored him. Maybe she was used it. I jumped every time.

Peeta put his hand down on my arm once, when I jolted. Maybe it was because he was startled, too. Maybe he was annoyed I kept twitching. Or maybe it was supposed to be a gesture of reassurance. I’m just glad he only did it once. I’m sure I glared.

As soon as Ms. Trinket relieves us of duty, before Peeta and I are fully standing, Haymitch is already on his way to the door 

“Wednesday,” he says, hand lifted. His voice is muffled; he’s facing the back and doesn’t bother to turn around. The door slams behind him.

Ms. Trinket’s smile looks a little forced. “You’ll get used to him. He’s really a very nice . . . He’s very talented.”

There are a few moments where none of us seem to know what to say next, or what to do. Then:

“Have a good weekend, Ms. Trinket,” Peeta says. He’s forgotten to call her Effie.

“Have a good weekend, Peeta,” she replies, nodding her head. She nods her head to me as well. “Katniss.”

We leave her standing alone on the stage.


	6. Six

Outside the front doors of the school, Peeta turns to me says, “Well, that could have been worse.”

I’m not sure exactly what look I get on my face in response, but it makes him laugh. The sound is light, even a little giddy.

I think again about what Gale said yesterday, about Peeta fighting with Cray. It’s starting to feel like an itch, one I can’t scratch. And before I can think about it, my mouth is moving, and I hear myself speaking.

“I saw you leave the courtyard during lunch yesterday,” I say.

I’m even less successful at sounding casual than I was with Madge at lunch. I’m glad Peeta doesn’t know me; if he did, he’d be able to tell.

“Yeah,” Peeta says. When he shrugs his shoulders, they stay high, making them look hunched. He’s stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Was it Cray?” I persist.

A dark look flashes across his face. It looks wrong there. “Guy’s an asshole.”

I roll my eyes. “No shit.” When Peeta doesn’t say anything else, I ask, “So—what did he say to you?”

All of a sudden, his eyes narrow. “What did you hear?”

“Nothing!” I deny. It’s too quick.

“Are you headed home?” Peeta asks, changing the subject, and I don’t know how to prevent it without destroying this strange ceasefire between us so I just let it happen. 

I shake my head. “I have work in a few hours.”

“I’m headed downtown,” Peeta says cautiously. “I could drop you somewhere. If there’s any place you, you know.”

I want to tell him no. I wish he hadn’t said anything. Because now that he’s lent me his scarf, I feel like I _can’t_ say no. He clearly _wants_ to give me a ride, for reasons I can’t fathom. I don’t answer him long enough that it starts to feel even more awkward than usual.

“I guess you could drop me off at the library downtown,” I say finally. “If it’s not too far out of your way.

His smile, again, is too big. “Not at all! My parents’ bakery is just a few blocks from there.”  He looks briefly uncomfortable. “I have to work today, too.”

“Okay then,” I say, and follow him down the stairs to his truck.

He looks as if he’s going to open my door for me, but thinks better of it. He goes around and unlocks his door, then leans over the front seat to unlock mine.

The inside is cleaner than I would have expected, and it smells faintly of sugar. Peeta doesn’t turn on the radio, or try to talk to me, which I’m glad for. He just drives, left hand on the wheel, right hand on the stick shift to change gears. I’m reminded of the conversation Madge and I had at lunch, about Peeta’s hands. They look . . . capable, wrapped around the gearshift.

I shift, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

Peeta notices. “Temperature okay?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” I say, probably a little shortly.

He turns his head to glance at me, but doesn’t say anything else.

At the library, he pulls up as close to the door as you can, from the parking lot side.

“Have fun at work,” he says, as I get out.

“Yeah,” I say, “you, too.”

He’s still sitting there when I look back from the library entrance. He sees me looking, and kind of gives a little wave. Brow furrowed, I push open the door and go inside.

//

I don’t have to be at work until a little before 3 pm, but I like to show up early. It’s usually where I grab lunch, if someone’s brought in leftover casserole or something. There’s nothing but condiments in the fridge today, so I head to the lockers instead to change, and to grab one of the energy bars I keep there in case. Rooba down at the supermarket lets me use her employee discount, in exchange for the discount I arranged for lessons for her daughter.

Fed and changed into sweats and a thin, old tee, I pad barefoot out into the main studio room. Homes is just finishing cleaning up from his judo class.

“Hey, Kat,” he says, smiling at me as he passes, headed for the lockers himself. I smile back, give him a nod. He’s the guy who got me the job here, when Mom moved us into town this summer; I knew him back in New York. It was a lucky coincidence, that he’d ended up here too. Otherwise, I’d probably be bagging groceries or working shifts at a convenience store. Neither one pays very well, especially for part-time work.

In the back corner of the room is a punching bag. It’s old and worn, but solid, and heavy. I tape my knuckles carefully, take a few deep, centering breaths, and start a series of punches.

Usually I take this time to stretch and go through what I want to do during that day’s class. But today I feel restless and off-balance, and it’s soothing to sink into the rhythm I’ve set.

I have two classes to lead today, one girl’s kickboxing class and a women’s self-defense class. The self-defense classes are always the roughest. Most of the time, you don’t go to a self-defense class without a reason. Teaching the moves themselves is fine, and unlike with the kickboxing class, the students are all there because they want to be. It’s just that things can get kind of emotional sometimes. And the women, some of them, remind me of my mother.

My hands and shoulders are starting to ache, so I stop and rest my forehead against the bag. I glance at the clock. Just enough time to stretch out and splash some water on my face before the kickboxing class starts showing up. The kickboxing classes are easier. The girls there remind me of Prim; they’re the same age. And it’s nice to be surrounded by giggling, at least for an hour or so at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention: I've posted another "story" for a few little related ficlets I've been working on that go with this 'verse: The Pan-American High School Scholarship Pageant Competition - Related Scenes.
> 
> There's one up now from Haymitch's POV up that goes with chapter 5.


	7. Seven

When I get home from work that night the house is dark and quiet. It surprises me; usually, on Saturdays, Prim waits up.

It’s even more surprising to find our mother at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea. She looks up when I come in and gives me a tentative, tired smile.

“What are you doing home?” I ask, keeping my voice low so as not to wake Prim. The apartment is small, and the walls are thin.

“Some sort of gas leak at the center,” she says. “They sent us all home for the night and transferred the patients to the hospital downtown.”

I don’t actually want to sit and talk with her—I’m tired, it’s been a long day, and all I want to do is curl up and watch TV, or go to bed—but it seems rude even for me. So I go to the stove and pour my own cup of tea from the leftover hot water and the used tea bag left in the tea bowl by the sink. I like my tea weak anyway.

“How’s school?” she asks when I sit down across the table from her.

I shrug. “Fine,” I say. It doesn’t cross my mind to tell her about the pageant. It’s not like she knows when I come and go anyway. If I win—something that’s feeling more and more unlikely, the more I learn—I can tell her then.

She acknowledges my non-answer by cupping her hands more fully around her teacup and looking down at it. I wonder what she sees.

“I like your scarf,” she says finally, and I realize then that I haven’t yet taken it off. It was cold on the walk from the bus stop, and it would have been dumb of me not use it. But I resented how grateful I was to have it wrapped around my neck the whole way home.

“Borrowed,” I say, and her eyebrows raise. She looks like she wants to ask, but doesn’t. She knows I won’t give her an answer. She knows she lost the right to expect one a long time ago.

“I’m glad you stayed warm,” she says instead.

I keep my face blank but inside I am irritated at her attempt at being maternal.

Which reminds me. I dig into my jacket pocket for the folded envelope I picked up from the office after my last class was over, and push it across the table.

“Here,” I say.

Her face changes, closes down, as she recognizes it. It’s the same envelope she gets from me every two weeks, though usually I don’t give it to her directly. Usually I leave it for her, on the fridge or in her purse.

“Since I’m seeing you,” I add, and it’s both an additional jab and a lie. I would have waited, stuck it under her bedroom door or something like usual, if she hadn’t reminded me, the way she always seems to, of the ways in which she's failed us, failed Prim. It's why my mother and I don't spend time together. It always turns into this.

I think of Gale’s mother, Hazelle, who has to work as many jobs as my mother but is still always there when she’s supposed to be. I’ve wished I could trade my own mother for her often enough that I don’t even feel guilty for thinking it, anymore.

My mother folds the envelope carefully into her left hand and adjusts her teacup just as carefully with the right. I watch her neutrally, unfeeling. I know I should be feeling something, but I can’t bring myself to care.

“Sometimes you’re very much like your father,” she says finally, quietly. I don’t know what she means.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” she says, and stands, putting the envelope into the pocket of her robe. She takes her teacup to the sink, rinses it, and sets it down in the basin. “Good night, Katniss.”

She doesn't say sweet dreams.


	8. Eight

On the way to school Monday morning, Peeta’s scarf is folded up at the bottom of my bag like a secret. The fabric, all together, can’t weigh more than a few pounds, but it still feels like it’s weighting me down. I can’t wait to get rid of it.

The problem occurs to me only as I’m approaching our English class: _how_ to give it back. I can’t just walk up to his desk and hand it to him. Maybe I could, if this weren’t high school. If I didn’t know what kind of response that would get from the rest of the class, or how fast talk would spread.

It surprises me that Peeta didn’t think of it. He has a lot more to lose than I do.

I slow my walk to get to class only right before the bell, to buy myself some extra time to think this through. Peeta smiles at me again when I pass his desk, but it’s not quite as weird as it was before. Maybe because I’m expecting it this time. I hurry by him to take my seat.

Class feels short, probably because I’m worrying over how to execute the hand off. Waiting until Wednesday, or even until after school, isn’t an option. I’m already tired just thinking about it.

After class I make sure to leave first and wait around the corner the direction I remember Peeta going after class on Friday. When he rounds the same corner a minute later, he seems surprised, but pleased, to see me there. It must be obvious that I was waiting.

“Hey,” he says.

“Here,” I say, and thrust the scarf into his hands. Then, remembering my manners late, I add, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he says. He swings his backpack around, unzips it, and tucks the scarf inside. It takes a minute; the scarf is bulky, and his bag is nearly full with notebooks and textbooks.

“It was really warm,” I find myself saying, just to fill the silence. I’m a little horrified, both at my lack of self-control and at saying something so inane.

“Isn’t it?” he says, looking pleased. “My sister-in-law knitted it for me. She’s great.”

I know there are questions I’m supposed to ask, to be polite, to be human, but my tongue feels thick in my mouth. I don’t do small talk.

“Well, tell her—tell her thanks, too,” I finally manage, and escape past him and his bemused look, down the hall.

At the end of which is Gale, standing in the center as students stream to either side of him. I stop in my tracks.

I can’t quite make out his expression, but it’s not hard to guess his reaction to seeing me and Peeta talking, especially after Friday. When he realizes I’ve seen him, he doesn’t move toward me, the way I am expecting. Instead, he shakes his head—in disgust?—and walks away.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more short chapter before we go back to longer ones!

When Gale gets to shop class, he’s clearly still not happy. Which is fine, because I’m not happy either. He’s the one who picked a fight with me last week. Otherwise I would have told him all about the scholarship competition, and Peeta, and everything. Seeing me talk to Peeta wouldn’t have been a surprise. And it’s not like it’s his business, if I want to talk to somebody, anyway

Gale still sits with me at our table, though he doesn’t say anything, even after the bell rings. Mr. Addams gives us our assignment for the day—new project, a bird feeder. Which would be great if we had a backyard, or a porch. Maybe Prim will want to hang it in the park down the street.

I get up to get supplies first, and even though he’s being an idiot, I get a set for Gale, too. When I get back to the table, there’s a copy of the written instructions sitting on the desk in front of my chair.

I sit down and carefully separate our materials, then push Gale’s pile to the front of his half of the desk. I steal a glance sideways at him. Our eyes meet.

“Hey,” he says finally, as around us everyone gets to work. 

“Hey,” I say back.

“Look, about Friday,” he starts.

“I was going to tell you,” I say. “Just, when you started asking about lunch—”

He nods. “Yeah, I get that.”

We both work quietly beside each other for a few minutes. I use a utility knife to score the plywood. Then Gale clears his throat.

“So,” he says. “What’s going on with you and Mellark?”

There’s no accusation in the way he asks it.

“Nothing,” I say honestly. “Ms. Trinket and Principal Undersee railroaded us into this . . . competition thing. We’re both doing it instead of detention.”

 _He lent me his scarf_. I don’t mention that part.

I also don’t mention suspension, mostly because I don’t want to deal with the disappointed look I know Gale will give me.

“How’d the two of you end up in the principal’s office?”

I can feel my cheeks heat up, thinking about it. “Got in kind of a . . . fight,” I admit. “I guess it was my fault. He was just trying to be nice.”

“I hear he’s a nice guy,” Gale says. It seems like a sincere statement, but there’s something . . . careful, I suppose, about the way he says it.

“We have these training sessions we have to go to with Ms. Trinket,” I go on, rather than address it. “Saturdays and Wednesdays.”

“Sounds hardcore,” Gale says, warmth and teasing back in his voice, and I smile despite myself.

“Shut up,” I say, still smiling. I check that he’s not holding a knife and then shove my elbow into his arm.

“So tell me about this competition thing,” he says, an invitation, and I spend the rest of the period, in between measuring and cutting and sanding, telling him everything I know.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama! Angst! Baked goods!

With Gale and I back on steady ground, things go back to feeling normal. I stay after school both Monday and Tuesday to work on Prim’s bookcase. On Tuesday, Gale stays after with me, and helps me fit together the frame. He even has time to drop me off at work before he has to pick up Vick and Rory. When I get home, Prim is in bed already, but she’s left me a note: there’s leftover freezer lasagna in the microwave. I reheat it and do some reading for history before turning in.

It isn’t until Wednesday afternoon, when I am on my way to the auditorium instead of staying in the shop room or riding home with Gale, that my life starts to feel strange again. I stop off at the main office to use the phone, to leave a message reminding Prim where I am today and when I’ll be home. The secretary volunteers sometimes at the hospice center, and knows our mother. So she always lets me call, at least when I’m calling Prim, even though it isn’t technically allowed. I have to put up with her pitying looks, but it’s not like I haven’t put up with worse.

Peeta’s already seated in the first row of the auditorium when I arrive. I drop into the seat next to his and deposit my bag on the seat to my right. Neither Ms. Trinket nor Haymitch are there yet.

Peeta hands me a tinfoil package. Suspiciously, I open it.

“Cookies,” I say aloud. There are three of them, mostly intact. Still a little warm.

“Oatmeal chocolate chip,” Peeta says. He shrugs uncomfortably. “Made ‘em in Home Ec. Had some leftovers.”

“You take Home Ec?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m judging.

He flushes anyway. “I needed an elective,” he says. “I figured—I knew how to bake. How hard could it be?”

“And?”

“And it’s still hard,” he says. “Turns out it’s a lot more than just baking.”

I take a bite—because it seems unnecessarily rude not to—and they’re good. Like, really good.

“These are good,” I say, because he’s watching me expectantly.

He ducks his head in a way that’s not as annoying as I’d have thought it would be. “Thanks,” he says.

I pop the rest of the cookie in my mouth, then wrap the rest back up and put them in my bag. “Saving them to share with my sister,” I explain when he furrows his brow.

“Prim,” he says, “right?”

“Right.” And I’m uncomfortably reminded of him hearing my phone conversation that day in Principal Undersee’s office.

Luckily the auditorium door opens before I have to say anything else. We both turn to look, expecting Ms. Trinket. It’s Haymitch. He looks slightly better than he did on Saturday. He’s dressed mostly the same—plaid work shirt today, with the same old jeans and worn boots—but he looks more alert, and he’s moving quicker.

“No Effie today,” he says as he passes us. “You just get me. Sorry to disappoint.”

He gets up on the stage and disappears into the wings. He returns with a plastic classroom chair, which he places slightly left of center stage, facing right. Then he disappears again, and produces a second chair, which he places slightly right of center stage, facing the first one.

“Today we’re getting to know each other a little bit,” he says. When Peeta and I don’t say anything, he clarifies. “Interviews. Didn’t you read Effie’s schedule? Need to know how much work I have ahead of me.”

He points at me. “You. Katerwhatsit. Up on stage.”

Slowly, I stand up. I hadn’t looked at Ms. Trinket’s schedule since Saturday. What was the point? I had to do whatever it was it said anyway.

There’s a gleam in Haymitch’s eye I don’t like, but I debate making a break for the door only briefly. Instead, I mount the steps at the side of the stage and cross the uneven floor to the chair Haymitch isn’t standing behind. I sit.

He says, “Please state your name for the judges.”

I’m not sure at first whether or not I’m supposed to be taking him seriously. I glance over at Peeta, my only ally here. He shrugs, eyes wide.

“State your name,” Haymitch repeats, loudly, and I jolt.

“Katniss,” I say, looking back to him. I cross my arms over my chest uncomfortably. “Katniss Everdeen.”

“Well, Katniss Everdeen,” he says, circling around to sit in the chair, crossing his arms, too, in a way that makes me want to uncross mine. “Tell us about yourself.”

My lips part, and my mind goes blank. _Tell us about yourself_.

What can I tell?

“What do you want to know?” I blurt out.

Haymitch leans back in the chair and smiles. “Oh, anything, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

I cast back for something that feels safe. New York. Mom. Dad. Prim.

“I have a sister,” I say. “Her name is Prim.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger.”

Haymitch is quiet a minute, looking at me. Then he says, “You take care of her?”

Something about the way he says it makes my throat go tight. “Yes, I say.”

He smiles. Like a shark. I narrow my eyes.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because she’s my sister,” I snap. “It’s my job.”

“It’s your parents’ job,” Haymitch says. “Not yours.”

“Well, maybe they weren’t always very good at it,” I fire back—and then I realize that I’m shaking. More importantly, I am almost in tears. I grit my teeth and focus on Haymitch’s right shoulder.

“Why weren’t they very good at it, Katniss?” Haymitch asks, voice quiet now. I don’t hear any pity in it, but I can hear other voices now. _Tell us about your mother, Katniss. What happened to your father, Katniss._ “What did they do wrong?”

I press my lips together. I can’t answer.

“Katniss,” Haymitch says again.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

I stand up. It must look abrupt from the outside. In my head it’s slow. Too slow. So are my steps away from Haymitch, down the stairs, past where Peeta is sitting in the front row and up the long aisle and out the auditorium door.

There’s a girl’s bathroom just outside, and I push the door open, go inside, and close my eyes as I lean back onto the closed door. My cheeks are burning. I feel like an idiot, leaving like that, but I couldn’t sit up there and—

And cry. I feel the tears still, now, fighting to get free. I don’t let them. I haven’t cried since New York, early on. I was a lot younger, then.

Once I’m composed again, I re-enter the auditorium. I would just leave, but my bag is still there—and I don’t know what the repercussions will be.

Haymitch has Peeta up on the stage in the chair I abandoned, and he is asking him questions, too.

“You got a girlfriend, Peeta Mellark?” Haymitch is asking. He’s standing again, leaning over the back of the second chair. He looks large like that. Much larger, and much older, than Peeta.

“No,” Peeta answers. His voice is even and strong. He’s smiling. But it’s not a smile I know of his. Not that I know many. “Why, you interested?”

It’s a reply that, from me, would have sounded too sharp. I would have sounded defensive, or insulting. Peeta somehow makes it sound charming.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, here, kid,” Haymitch replies, but he almost looks pleased.

The auditorium chair creaks as I sit down, and Peeta—but not Haymitch—glances my way. He gives me a brief smile, and I feel ashamed. For breaking down up there. For looking so weak.

“No,” Peeta says, turning back to Haymitch. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Why not?” Haymitch asks. “Not very popular with the ladies?” He grins. “Or are the ladies not very popular with you?”

“I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Peeta’s still smiling that same smile. “I like girls just fine.”

Haymitch takes a moment—whether to consider, or to try to throw Peeta off guard, I don’t know. “Any special girl you have your eye on?” he asks finally.

“There is this one girl,” Peeta says. The smile’s gone, replaced by a convincingly earnest look.

“Well,” Haymitch says, “what’s her name?”

“I can’t,” Peeta says.

“Aw, come on, kid,” Haymitch presses. “Just between us.”

“If I tell you, it might get back to her,” Peeta says, smiling again. “And I’m not ready to make my move yet.”

And Haymitch laughs. It’s short, and sounds a little rusty, but it’s a full out belly laugh, an expression of pure amusement.

“I like you, Peeta Mellark,” he says when he’s done. “You’re a little _too_ smooth, but we can work with that.”

Peeta flushes a little bit. I don’t know if it’s from the compliment or the criticism.

Then Haymitch turns to address me, too. “We’re done for today,” he says.

It’s over an hour before we’re scheduled to end. I grab my bag, ready to flee to the bus stop. I don’t want to get stuck talking to Peeta, not today. Not after what happened on stage.

“Wait!” Haymitch grunts. “Homework. Katniss, come up with a list of five things you can talk about without—doing what you did up there today. Peeta. . . figure out how to be a little more vulnerable, kid. Or at least how to pretend. We’ll try it again next week.” He waves his hand. “Dismissed.”

I head for the door immediately, past ready to be away from here, to be back at home, with Prim.

I’m far enough head of Peeta that he doesn’t catch up to me until I’m almost at the back parking lot.

“Hey, Katniss!” he calls. He’s jogging after me the same way he did that day I dropped my sweater—the day that started this whole thing.

I shake my head and keep walking. I can’t look at him right now. I know he’s going to try to be nice to me.

I hear his footsteps slow to a walk behind me. Good.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says after me.

But all I can think about is getting home.


	11. Eleven

With our training session ending early, I’m home in time for dinner. I unlock the door, reassured as always that Prim remembered to lock it behind her, and call out that I’m home.

Prim doesn’t answer, which isn’t normal. But I find her quickly; she’s curled up in a ball, asleep, on the couch. The old knitted throw we keep thrown over the back is bunched around her knees. Carefully, I readjust it around her, tucking it more securely. Her eyes flutter 

“Katniss?”

“Hi,” I say.

Her eyes look glassy; her cheeks are flushed pinker than usual. I press the back of my hand to her forehead to feel for fever. She’s warm, but not burning.

“Feeling sick?” I ask.

“A little,” she says, and pulls the edge of the throw in close under her chin.

“Soup for dinner?”

“And triangle toast,” Prim murmurs, closing her eyes again.

I smile and kiss her forehead, then head for the kitchen. I find a can of Chicken ‘n’ Stars in the cabinet, and there’s a new bag of white bread sitting on the counter. I empty the can into a microwave safe bowl and start that heating while I put two pieces of bread in the toaster.

The toast pops up and the microwave goes off at the same time. I put in more bread and left the soup sit while I butter Prim’s pieces of toast and carefully cut each piece in four even triangles; it was the only way Prim would eat it when she was younger. I find a tray and load it up: Prim’s soup ladled into a mug and mine left in the bowl; spoons for each of us; her toast on a paper towel. Orange juice and ginger ale for her; just ginger ale for me. When my toast pops up, I grab it with my bare fingers and drop it quickly onto a paper towel of my own. I carry it into the living room.

We eat dinner together on the couch and watch cartoons until Prim starts to fall asleep again. I make sure she gets undressed and into bed; one night without brushing her teeth won’t hurt her. Then I turn off the light and shut the door.

Back in the living room I turn off the tv and clean up, before settling at the kitchen table to work on homework. But with Prim asleep and the tv off, I can’t avoid thoughts of earlier that afternoon any longer.

The shame of it licks in my belly, and I close my eyes and let Haymitch’s words roll over me again. _It’s your parents’ job. Not yours_. But someone had to do it. Someone had to make sure that Prim got to school in the morning, that she was fed—that all of us were fed. I couldn’t trust my mother to be that person, not after—

I take a deep breath and hold onto the air in my lungs until I feel like I’m going to burst. When I release it, my head is spinning, but I feel more centered, ready to finish the thought, at least in my head.

_Not after Dad died_.

When I think of my father, I remember him not as the bodily remains my mother could barely identify as I stood, too young, by her side, but as he was before the accident at the mine that killed him. I remember the way he used to carry me on his shoulders so I could see above the crowds at parades. I remember him bent over the kitchen table with me, helping with my spelling. I remember him making my mother smile and Prim giggle. I remember, too, that he looked like me, tall and lanky, dark hair and olive skin, where mom and Prim are pale and fair. I remember that he was strong and kind and full of laughter and now all he is, is dead.

I know it isn’t his fault, that he left us. It’s no ones fault. That’s what the word “accident” means. But that doesn’t stop me from being angry. Because he left us, and because, in a lot of ways, he took Mom with him.

I don’t know very much about how my parents met and fell in love. I do know that my mother’s family didn’t approve. I’ve never met them. If they hated my father so much, I don’t want to. I think of my mother’s love for my father as her most redeeming quality. She loved him enough to give up her whole life for him. But I also think of it as her biggest weakness. Because when he died, she couldn’t cope. Not even for Prim and me.

It didn’t happen right away. For the first few weeks after Dad died, she was—fine. Strong. She arranged for his burial. Collected the life insurance, which, added to their savings, just barely paid for the burial. Looked at what we had left. And realized we needed help.

It wasn’t her own family my mother went to, then. It was Dad’s. She moved us to New York, where Dad’s sister lived. All three of us shared her guest room. Prim and I started at new schools. And then—then my mother started fading.

At first it was small things. She’d get up later in the mornings. Leave Prim and I to figure out dinner by ourselves. But six weeks after we arrived in New York, she was barely responding when we spoke; when we tried to get out of bed, she just turned her face away.

Dad’s sister had not taken us in out of charity; she couldn’t afford to. She expected my mother to contribute, once she found a job. But my mother never found one. And things got more and more tense.

I came home one day to them having a screaming fight. Or Dad’s sister was having a screaming fight. My mother just lay there, silent, eyes vacant and tears wetting the pillow at her temples.

I remember I was afraid. I sent Prim next door to play with the little girl who lived there and huddled right outside the bedroom door, just waiting for it to be over. I was twelve.

Dad’s sister didn’t even spare me a look when she passed. But what was worse was the way my mother would not look at me when I curled up next to her on the bed and begged her to please, please get up, to make everything okay. But she didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t, I guess.

Dad’s sister kicked us out three weeks later. We moved into a women’s shelter, where we slept together in a room—or rather rooms, because sleeping arrangements were reassigned every two weeks—with other families of women and children, and kept all of our few belongings in a single locker that slid beneath the bed. We were issued toilet paper once a week, and if we needed more, I stole it from the school bathrooms. We ate whatever the shelter, or the school lunch program, gave us, or we didn’t eat.

Most of the shelter were people like us, women and their children—a lot who had been abused, some of who’d been sick, or depressed—but there were lots of older women alone too, or women who looked old, most of them not quite . . . right. Some nights it was like living with ghosts. I would lay awake in bed, Prim restless but asleep curled up beside me with her knees pressed into my hip and her fingers clutched in my nightshirt, and listen to the wailing and the sobs and the whispers.

Prim did better than I did, there at the shelter. She’d always been better with people than me, she was pretty and her smile was sweet and quick, and the other women there, workers and full-time residents alike, adored her. In the afternoons after school she’d play checkers with old Wiress, who never spoke but also never lost a game, or trade hand clap games with the other girls.

I spent most of my time in the kitchen with the cook, Sae. She’d send me to do her errands, sometimes, and pay me a few nickels or a quarter in return. They were what paid for the cake for Prim’s birthday that year, and for the new white hair bow I pretended was from mom and I both.

Prim was the only thing I cared about, and I tried to act normal for Prim. But I didn’t feel normal.

The shelter held classes, once a week. Self-defense classes, paid for by a local church, for women who were at the shelter to escape partners who’d abused them. That’s how I met Homes. He was one of the teachers. Most of the time no one showed up. But I always did. At first it was mostly to have another reason to stay away from my mother. But then because, whenever the class was empty, Homes gave me extra lessons.

I was small, still short and painfully skinny, but I was determined to learn how to fight. Homes taught me that, but he also taught me how to handle how angry I was—at the world, and my father, at my mother most of all. He taught me how to keep it from overwhelming me. And when my mother and Prim and I finally left the shelter a little over a year after we first came, Homes and I kept in touch.

My homework is to come up with five things I can talk about without what happened today happening again. But I don’t know how I can. Everything I love, everything I hate—everything I think and feel—it all comes back, in some way, to New York. And there is nothing I ever want to talk about, or think about, less.


	12. Twelve

I’m a few minutes later than usual to lunch on Thursday, and when I arrive at Madge and my usual bench, she isn’t alone. Peeta is sitting next to her.

I stare for a few moments, dumbfounded. I don’t know how much longer I would have stood there, speechless, if Peeta hadn’t looked up and see me.

When he does, he breaks off in the middle of whatever he’s saying to Madge and smiles. He looks relieved, and it confuses me, until I remember that I wasn’t in English today, so I could take Prim to the doctor, and the last time he’d seen me I was . . . upset.

It bewilders me that he’d even notice, if I’m honest. Are we friends now? I’m uncomfortable with that idea for reasons I can’t quite name. It’s not that I don’t like Peeta. He’s just . . . _different_. Not like me. Neither is Madge, but Madge and my friendship happened slowly. I had time to get used to it. This thing with Peeta—it feels too quick.

Still feeling uncomfortable, I walk the rest of the way to the bench. Madge digs into her lunch bag and hands me half a sandwich in greeting. I take it, then drop my bag and sit on the ground beside it. I’d sit on the bench, but Peeta is there.

“I’m sorry, I’ll move,” Peeta says.

“Stay,” Madge replies. She nudges my shoulder. “Right, Katniss?”

I shrug.

“I don’t want to steal your seat,” Peeta says earnestly, and I can’t help it; he’s so . . . _polite_. I roll my eyes.

“Stay,” I say.

“You were telling me how your brothers were?” Madge asks, and I settle in to finish the sandwich where they talk.

I’m not really listening to the words, but the way they’re talking sounds natural—not like when Peeta and I talk, which is always full of awkward pauses and things that are blurted out. Which I know is my fault. Clearly Peeta knows how to have a conversation. Madge is actually laughing; she sounds happy. I glance at them out of the corner of my eye and Madge is smiling, cheeks flushed, while Peeta gestures expansively with his hands. 

“—and that’s when Mom banned him from every going anywhere near the flour sifter ever again.”

Madge shakes her head, eyes bright, and opens her mouth to say something.

But then her face closes down so suddenly even I notice it.

“Madge?” Peeta asks, at the same time I shift to look at her more fully, concerned.

“Peeta bread!” Cray says as he approaches from Peeta’s back.

And lunch had been so pleasant so far.

“What’s up, Cray?” Peeta asks. He sounds pleasant enough, but there’s something about it that sounds—off. Like he’s faking it, the way he was yesterday with Haymitch. Cray doesn't seem to notice. I remember what Peeta said about Cray on Saturday, and I’m not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed at how well Peeta’s pretending to be friends.

“Just curious what you’re up to all he way over here.” He shoots a sleazy grin at Peeta, eyes sliding Madge’s direction. “But I bet I can guess.”

Cray’s standing so that he’s towering over all three of us, blocking the sun, using his size. I expect Peeta to stand up, too, in response to the physical challenge. He doesn’t; he stays seated, on level with Madge.

“Did you need something?” Peeta asks patiently, and a brief look of annoyance flashes over Cray’s face.

“Yeah, actually. You said you’d share your history notes. Word is there’s pop quiz next period.”

“Give me a minute and I’ll bring them over,” Peeta says.

Cray shrugs, but I can tell he’s not happy being brushed off and send back to the table alone.

“I remember telling _Delly_ I’d share my history notes,” Peeta comments once Cray moves out of hearing distance. He pushes his hair back from his face and blows out his breath. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him out of sorts, and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.

“You know Bobby,” Madge says.

“Hey,” Peeta says, sounding suddenly concerned. “Seriously, are you okay?”

Which draws my attention to Madge, too. She looks angry, but she also looks—pale. The color from laughing has all drained from her face.

“I’m fine,” Madge says, but something in her voice doesn’t sound right. “It was nice to catch up. Come back and join us anytime.”

“Thanks, I will,” Peeta says. He stands up. “If you’re sure you’re—”

“I’m fine,” Madge says again. It’s more convincing this time.

Peeta looks at me and smiles a little. “See you Saturday.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

Then he holds out his hand.

“You aren’t going to keep sitting on the ground after I leave, are you?” he says before I can say anything.

Probably I would have. But when he says it that way, it doesn’t really seem like an option. Reluctantly, I take the offered hand, and his fingers close around mine. I can’t help noticing how strong they feel. How warm his skin is against mine, where our palms are pressed together. He pulls; I stand, and hastily let go.

“Thanks,” I say, fighting the overwhelming urge to rub my palm over my thighs.

I sit in the space he vacated as he trots to his usual table. And after an awkward moment I glance at Madge, and even though our friendship is largely based around not talking about things, which is kind of the way I like it, I force myself to ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Madge says. She smiles a little, though, like she’s pleased I asked, and it occurs to me that maybe I’m the only one who likes that we don’t talk about things. Maybe Madge would prefer someone she could share confessions with.

But my guilt only lasts until her next words: “I’d rather talk about Peeta.”

I shift uncomfortably. “Why?”

Madge sighs. “Katniss.”

“What?”

“He didn’t come over here today to talk to me.”

I make a face. “If you didn’t have to talk about Bobby Cray, I don’t have to talk about Peeta.”

“That’s different,” Madge says. “ _They’re_ different.”

“They seem pretty much the same to me,” I say, even though I know it’s not true. I just want to stop talking about it.

Madge looks away, and for a moment I’m think I’ve gotten what I want. But then she looks back at me, and her cheeks are flushed again, her mouth set.

“I know things have been hard for you,” Madge says, voice tight. “But you’re not the only one shitty stuff has happened to. Just because some of us have more money than you doesn’t mean our lives are perfect. Maybe you don’t know everything about him.”

 _Maybe you don’t know everything about me_ , is left unsaid between us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I forgot to mention last time: I added a new chapter-- Peeta's POV on Katniss, to go with chapter 10-- to the related scenes (http://archiveofourown.org/works/474267/chapters/870738).


	13. Thirteen

Ms. Trinket’s schedule has just one word to describe this Saturday’s agenda: makeover. It’s in all capital letters and followed by two exclamation points. When I’d read it for the first time last week, I’d been wary. But I can’t imagine it being worse than the emotional torture of this past Wednesday, so I’m not dreading it too much as I dress quietly in the dark and head out to catch the bus.

I arrive at school first again, but I’ve remembered to wear more layers and it’s not as chilly out today, anyway. Peeta and Ms. Trinket arrive at nearly the same moment, saving me from having to make small talk with either of them. But a third vehicle pulls up to the front of the school as well: a large black van. It looks like the same one every television kidnapper uses. There are two more of the vans idling at the curb.

“Good morning!” Ms. Trinket’s voice rings out. She gives a cheery wave in my direction and a smile in Peeta’s, then hurries in the direction of the van. She leans through the rolled down driver-side window and teeters there on her heels (which are cotton candy blue today, paired with a blue and green tweed suit) for nearly five minutes, blond curls moving vigorously. I am too far away to hear what she is saying to them. Peeta must be, too—or maybe he’s just polite, I don’t know—because he joins me on the stairs.

“Hey,” he says. “Ready to get madeover?”

I roll my eyes in answer. Then I ask, “Who’s in the van, could you see?”

“The windows were shaded, but I’m guessing whoever’s doing the makeover,” Peeta replies. “I hope so, anyway. Whoever it is has to be better than Ms. Trinket, right?”

The idea of Ms. Trinket doing our makeovers hadn’t really occurred to me, actually. The idea is horrifying.

When Ms. Trinket finally bustles up the steps, she’s beaming. “We’re going to have so much fun today,” she enthuses as the vans turn down the alley beside the school.

“Are those vans here for us?” Peeta asks as she fishes her keys out of her hideously bright green purse and sightlessly holds it out to Peeta to take while she puts the key into the door lock.

“They are,” Ms. Trinket says, still working on the lock. “I’ve sent them around back with my spare key, so they can start preparing for your style consultations.” She smiles brightly over her shoulder at us. “I do love this part. And you two are very lucky. Cinna—oh!” The lock finally releases. “There we go!” Ms. Trinket pushes the door open and ushers us in, before taking the purse back from Peeta’s arms.

She continues to chatter as we head for the auditorium but, walking behind her, I can’t make most of it out. It fills the silence, I guess. By the time we get to the auditorium, there are half dozen people on stage already doing—something. We’re mostly down the aisle when Ms. Trinket squeals.

“Cinna, darling!” she exclaims, scurrying the rest of the way to the stage steps.

“Effie,” the man who must be Cinna greets her warmly, taking one of her hands between the two of his and smiling. “How are you?”

“Just wonderful, with you here,” Ms. Trinket gushes, then turns and beckons us over. “Children, this is Cinna. He’s here to help us with the . . . presentational aspects of the pageant. First impressions are so important, don’t you think? Cinna, these are Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen.”

If first impressions really are important, then I’m screwed; this morning I just pulled on my jeans and an old flannel work shirt that used to be my father’s. Peeta’s better off; his jeans are nicer and his shirt looks new.

Cinna, on the other hand . . . I don’t know what I’d expect from a makeover expert, or whatever he is, but I wouldn’t have expected someone Ms. Trinket selected to look this, well, normal. Cinna is average height—he’s at eye level with Ms. Trinket in her heels—but his build slender, almost delicate. He’s dressed in black: soft-looking long-sleeved shirt and slacks with a drawstring waist that fall to the top of his black canvas shoes. He’s beautiful, but in an androgynous sort of way. His skin is smooth and his expression tranquil as he turns his smile to include me and Peeta, as well.

“I’m just so pleased to you fit us in,” Ms. Trinket is saying. “I know you’re _so busy_ , I almost couldn’t believe it when I heard your message.”

“I was pleased to be able to be here,” Cinna replies.

“Cinna is one of our most distinguished graduates,” Ms. Trinket says to us. “He styles some of New York’s most prominent residents. And he’s agreed to assist us this year in ensuring you both are able to put your best foot forward at the competition.” I assume in an appropriately fashion-forward shoe.

For the next few hours Peeta and I are going to be separated, which I’m grateful for; we’re directed to opposite sides of the stage, where makeshift dressing rooms have been set up. Inside, the walls of my dressing room are black, but inside there are a dizzying array of—things. Two walls are lined with poles full to bursting with more colors and fabrics than I’ve seen in my life, probably combined; the full width of a third wall is covered with a mirror and a long black counter that holds an army of bottles and implements I wouldn’t be able to identify if Prim’s life depended on it. Cinna, along with two silent, very brightly colored assistants, comes with me. So, unfortunately, does Ms. Trinket.

“Please tell me you can do _something_ with her hair,” Ms. Trinket says first off.

I scowl, running my hand over it as I’m herded onto the stool in front of the counter. “What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

But I know what’s wrong with my hair. I always cut it myself, for one. It’s shorter than most boys’, for another. Probably there’s more. Split ends, or something.

I tell myself I don’t care what my hair looks like, but clearly that’s not true, because I can feel myself start to panic. I don’t want my hair to look like Ms. Trinket’s, or either of the assistants’. One of them has long, unnatural red locks; the other’s hair is bleached blond and choppy, streaked with blue.

Or maybe I’m just feeling claustrophobic; the room is small, and there are five of us crammed in here. I focus on keeping my breathing steady. It’s just hair.

“I don’t want to do much,” Cinna says to me. (We both ignore Ms. Trinket’s “Are you _sure_?”) “We’ll just clean it up a little. That sound alright to you?”

“Fine, do whatever,” I say, but I’m relieved and I’m sure Cinna can tell. I’m surprised he cared to check.

Cinna murmurs instructions to the assistant with the blue streaks before taking Ms. Trinket and Red Hair out with him, I assume to check on Peeta.

Blue Streaks covers me with a black cape. “I’m Venia,” she introduces herself as she sprays my hair down with water.

Venia chirps the entire time she works, but she never seems to expect a response and I tune her out. Having to stare at myself in the mirror the whole time is a little like torture; it’s something I try to do as little of as possible. My face is . . . my face. Looking at it isn’t going to change it. It isn’t going to make me look more like Prim or my mother, who before my father died was beautiful, blond and blue-eyed and happy and fair. In the morning, I make sure my face is clean and my clothes are correctly fastened. I don’t wear make-up or creams. I barely even bother with a brush.

Whatever Venia does to my hair takes a lot longer than when I cut it myself in the bathroom mirror at home. A lot of hair falls to the floor but the amount on my head seems to remain roughly the same as she lifts and snips over and over again. Eventually she puts down the scissors and picks up the blowdrier.

As my hair starts to dry, I can tell that it looks . . .different. It’s shorter, but not a lot shorter. It’s longer at the top and front, I notice, than in the back. Once it’s dry, Venia spends an unbelievable amount of time combing fingers coated with something sticky that smells like melon through the strands, pushing my hair this way and that while she frowns. I honestly can’t tell much of a difference no matter what she does.

She’s still doing whatever it is she’s doing when Cinna returns (without Ms. Trinket, thankfully) and after a few suggestions from him and a few extra scissor snips from Venia, my hair is finally in good enough shape to be left alone.

“Not too bad, right?” Cinna asks.

“Sure,” I say, and I’m telling the truth. It’s somehow both neater and choppier at the ends than it was before, but the change doesn’t feel too drastic. There’s hair falling around my face and into my eyes now, hair that I normally push back, but I figure I still can, once I wash out the stuff Venia put in it.

Cinna smiles. “Then let’s move on to the clothes.”

The next however long is in large part a blur. I spend a lot of time standing awkwardly in my bra and underwear while Venia and the other girl, Octavia, hold various pieces of clothing in front of me. I spend just as much time putting things on and taking things off. I’m used to not having much privacy, from New York, and from sharing a room with Prim, but it still feels strange. Finally, Cinna seems satisfied, and I just have to put back on his final choices and hold still while Venia and Octavia mark things in what seems to be white chalk and insert various pins. There’s a long red dress and what I think might be a pair of leather pants that I’m intrigued by despite myself. There are a few tops and pants, another shorter dress or two, and some sort of jacket. None of it fits right, but I guess that’s what all the chalk and pins are for. They also measure what seems like every inch of my body, twice, including my feet—for shoes, apparently.

At the end I feel dazed. I’m looking forward to slipping back into my jeans and workshirt, but Octavia takes them from my hands before I can start putting them on and replaces them with a black dress I’d tried on earlier, the one thing that actually fit.

“Just until after pictures,” she explains merrily, but before I can ask, she’s left the room with Venia on her heels.

“Pictures?” I ask Cinna, the only person other than me who’s left.

“For the pageant program,” he says with a slight smile, probably at my expense. “Thank you, Katniss.”

“What for?”

“I can tell this wasn’t any fun for you.”

I hope I don’t look as shell-shocked from the last hour or so as I feel, but I probably do. I’m sure most of Cinna’s clients are happy to be trying on tons of clothes and having people fuss over them. It just makes me uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I like Cinna, I think; I don’t want to give him trouble. It’s not his fault I’m here. And I’m positive this process could have been much worse.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I like a challenge.”

Then he tells me there’s one last thing for the day, before the pictures: makeup.

"I just want to test some colors, while I’m here, and try a few things out. I’ll snap a few shots of the results, so I can match them up to outfits back at the studio, and make sure we have everything we need with us on the day of the pageant."

“You’ll be there?” I ask. I’m surprised.

Cinna smiles warmly as he gestures me back onto the stool. “Portia and I will be, yes. Portia’s in with Peeta right now, but she’ll be the one taking the pictures of the two of you for program submission.”

When he sits down on another stool he pulls out from beneath the counter and puts out his hand, palm up, I warily place mine in it, and he begins testing colors on the skin where my thumb meets my wrist. He’s quiet as he works, which normally I would appreciate. Having someone else focusing so narrowly on me—even just my hand—unnerves me.

“Do you usually do this part?” I ask, and he glances up at me with a smile.

“I don’t, but I wanted to get to know you a little better.”

The idea startles me. “Why?”

“To help me design for you more effectively. And because I was intrigued by Effie’s description of you.”

“How did she describe me?”

“Stylist-client privilege,” Cinna says, turning to grab a bottle and a white spongy wedge from the counter. “Let’s just say that what she said didn’t make sense to me. It intrigued me.”

“What about Peeta?”

He sprays the bottle’s contents onto the sponge.

“He was easier to understand.”

I think about Peeta eating lunch with me and Madge on Thursday, and what Madge said to me after. I’m not so sure Cinna is right.

“Look up,” Cinna says, and starts to apply the makeup below my eyes and over my cheeks. We both stay silent as he smoothes the wet, cool sponge over my skin, aside from his short, murmured instructions to turn my head or press my lips together to stretch the skin around them.

“Why did you sign up for this competition, Katniss?” Cinna asks as he sponges along my jaw line. I have my head tilted up, so I cannot see his face.

“Ms. Trinket must have told you,” I reply cautiously.

“I’d rather hear it from you.”

“It was this or detention. Maybe suspension. Ms. Trinket and Principal Underwood left it kind of vague.”

“Surely either of those would have been an easier sentence for you than this.”

“Probably, “ I concede.

“Is it the college money?” he asks.

“A little, maybe,” I say. Just not for me.

“There,” Cinna says, and I drop my chin. He studies me for a few moments, and then he asks, “May I give you some advice, Katniss Everdeen?”

“Okay,” I say cautiously. I can see now, in this light, with him so close, that he has applied a light sheen of gold at the outside corner of each of his eyes.

“Start taking this very, very seriously. The people who run this pageant—they’re dangerous people. Whether or not you win—whether or not you even try to win—be careful.”

I am immediately on alert. “What do you mean dangerous?”

“I mean powerful and short-tempered. It’s an unfortunate combination.”

“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “Instead of in New York, working on people who actually want to be made over?”

“I’m here because I wanted to give back to my alma mater,” Cinna says calmly. But even I can tell that’s not the whole story, and that he wants me to know that.

“Close your eyes,” he says, lifting a makeup brush, powder clinging to its bristles, “and hold your breath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very delayed chapter, I know! I’ve been working on the next, like, half a dozen chapters simultaneously, and it’s taking a little longer to get things in the right places than I’d originally anticipated. I promise there’s more Peeta/Katniss plus a major pick-up in plot pacing coming soon!


	14. Fourteen

Makeovers, in the movies, are transformative. The ugly duckling becomes a swan; everyone stares in awe; boys that wouldn’t have looked at the duckling twice fall at the swan’s feet. I’ve never harbored similar fantasies about myself, but if I had, Peeta’s reaction as I stalk out of my dressing cube would have dashed them pretty quickly.

“You look really uncomfortable,” he says as I join him center stage as I’ve been directed. He’s trying to sound sympathetic, but I can tell he’s suppressing a smile.

“I feel ridiculous,” I say. “I look like a Kardashian.”

I don’t have the curves for it, despite the best efforts of the bra Venia strapped me into. But I feel artificial. My face is made up, my eyelashes sticky with mascara and my lips slick with gloss. I am wearing a stretchy black dress that feels about four sizes too tight and way too short and black spiked heels it’s taking all my concentration not to fall in. I’m also wearing a pair of dark reddish tights, added by Octavia after she discovered in dismay that I hadn’t shaved my legs in a couple of weeks. Like I’d worn anything where I’d need to have shaved legs in months.

Peeta looks . . . nice. Surprisingly unchanged, actually; his clothes look sharper, like they’ve been ironed or something, and they fit closer to his body. His hair clearly has some sort of product in it. But otherwise he looks the same as he’s always looked. Except he’s wearing almost as much makeup as I am.

“You both look so nice!” Ms. Trinket exclaims as she bustles up the aisle toward us. “Peeta, you look just darling. And Katniss! So much better! Peeta, don’t you think Katniss looks nice?”

I cross my arms, feeling self-conscious and irritated.

“She doesn’t look like _her_ ,” Peeta says.

He says it as if that’s a bad thing, and I’m annoyed at how pleased it makes me feel.

I drop my arms and straighten up. “Can we just get this whole photo op over with?”

Ms. Trinket’s lips thin, and she gives a little sniff, I’m sure in irritation at my lack of appreciation.

One of Cinna’s people—“Portia,” she introduces herself—explains that we’ll be doing individual headshots first, and then a full-length shot of the two of us together. After scrutinizing both of us, she finally nods at Peeta, and leads him to the back of the stage, where other of Cinna’s helpers are just setting up a tall backdrop in of a stool. It reminds me of school picture days in elementary school. Maybe they’re still like that, but I wouldn’t know; I always make a point to skip that day.

I stand awkwardly at the front of the stage with Ms. Trinket and watch. Peeta sits down carefully on the stool and there’s a serious look on his face as he adjusts himself according to Portia’s directions. She says something I can’t make out and Peeta laughs. It looks genuine, at least from here. Portia snaps one shot, and then another, and another. Peeta’s much more patient than I expect I will be. Finally, Portia puts down her camera and Peeta stands. It’s my turn.

The other stylists change the backdrop behind me. Peeta’s was a summery bue; the new one is white.

“Okay, Katniss,” Portia says. “Can you sit up straight and look right at me?

I look up, then down; I look at the camera, and then I look away. She asks me once to smile, and I _try_. But I must not be very successful, because she shakes her head and doesn’t ask again. I’m starting to get stiff before she stops, unused to worrying about keeping my legs together the way I have to in this skirt. It’s awkward and annoying. I glance at Portia’s face as I stand, feeling weirdly apprehensive, but she looks satisfied.

“You’ve got great bone structure,” she says to me. “The light loves you.”

“Thanks?” I say, and she smiles as if I’ve made a joke.

“Let me just call Peeta over. Wait one second.”

“Looked good,” Peeta says to me, as he comes to stand on my left. Ms. Trinket is right behind him, beaming.

“You too,” I say, for lack of anything else.

He opens his mouth to say something back, but before he can, Cinna—who has reappeared with the backdrop changers—interrupts.

“I don’t want to do this one in front of an artificial backdrop,” he says. “I saw something outside earlier that I think will work.”

If being inside dressed like this was bad, being outside is worse. I feel exposed and on edge, and even more unsteady on the stupid stiletto heels I’m wearing as they sink into the ground on each step. At least we don’t need to go far; Cinna leads us to a grassy area a few dozen feet from the auditorium’s back door with a huge old tree and nothing behind it but an old chain link fence and, past that, more trees and bushes.

Peeta and I stand awkwardly as Portia does something with the knobs and buttons on her camera and positions other members of Cinna’s staff with large white and silver discs on either side of us. She snaps a few pictures—“test shots,” she says, “to check the light”—and then finally she says, ‘Okay, guys. Act like you like each other.”

I freeze and look at Peeta, who shrugs slightly. He shifts closer and puts an awkward arm around me. “Like this?” he asks Portia. He’s not looking at me, and it feels almost apologetic.

“Something like that,” Portia says, obviously amused. Then she looks harder at me. “Katniss. Relax.”

I try, but I can tell by Portia’s expression that, just like with the smile earlier, I’m not doing a very good job. I’m conscious of every place Peeta and I are touching: the weight of his arm across my shoulder, the point of contact where the side of his leg is pressed against my hip. I feel weirdly wrong in my body; my back muscles are taut, and my shoulders are too high.

“Katniss?” Peeta murmurs, moving his arm away. He sounds worried.

I suck in a breath and don’t look at him.

“Let’s try something different,” Cinna suggests. There’s no judgment in his voice, and I’m grateful. I feel dumb enough as it is. What’s _wrong_ with me?

We do a handful of shots standing apart from each other. Cinna positions me in front, arms by my side, and Peeta a few feet behind, by the tree. Then we do the reverse. Finally, he puts Peeta and I both against the tree, a foot apart.

“Can you join hands?” Cinna asks us both, but it’s me he’s looking at.

This is easy. Or it should be. Peeta puts his hand out, offering. I place mine in it. He smiles at me, looking relieved, and squeezes my fingers. Something clutters in my stomach. Flustered, I turn to the camera just before the flash goes off again.


	15. Fifteen

On Sunday, to amuse a still under-the-weather Prim, I tell her about my makeover. I describe Cinna and his gold eyeliner, and Portia, and her camera, and all the clothing they made me try on. I may have hated it, but it’s exactly the kind of thing Prim loves. 

I don’t mention the thing Cinna said about the people who run the pageant being dangerous. I’m still not sure what to make of it myself. 

Gale comes over and plays cards with her while I lug our dirty clothes to the Laundromat two blocks over. She protests that she’s too old for a babysitter, but not very hard. I think she’s starting to get bored; there are only so many midday game shows you can watch before you start going a little crazy. 

All in all, it’s a nice, quiet Sunday. Our mother makes it home for dinner, and fusses over Prim, feeling her forehead and looking in her ears and throat even though Prim says they don’t hurt. It’s okay, being around her, with Prim as a buffer. We all end up in the living room watching a movie about gladiators on tv, Prim and I sharing a blanket on the couch and our mother curled up a few feet away in a chair. 

On Monday I head to school after making sure Prim is up to catch the bus and suffer through classes as usual. I’ve almost gotten used to the way Peeta smiles at me in greeting every day in English even if I still don’t know exactly what to do in response. What I’m not used to is the way that, when I get to lunch, Peeta is there again, talking to Madge. He isn’t sitting this time, though, and his backpack is still slung over his shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says as I approach. 

“Hi,” I say back cautiously. “Are you eating with us again?” 

“Peeta was just telling me about your homework from last week,” Madge says. 

It takes me a second to realize she’s not talking about English. 

“For Haymitch,” Peeta says.  “I thought we could practice for Wednesday.” 

“Here?” I ask. 

I know I sound skeptical. It’s not that practice sounds like a bad idea. Part of me is relieved at the possibility of not going into Wednesday cold. But during the school day, out in the open . . . 

“I thought we could use the library,” Peeta says. And then he adds, earnestly, “We could do me first.” 

No one speaks for a moment. Then Madge snorts in laughter and I feel my face getting hot, even though I’m not the one who spoke. 

“I mean, you could ask me questions first,” he amends quickly. “So I can practice, um, being vulnerable. And then, if you want, we can switch. But only if you want.” 

“I don’t know,” I say. 

“It’d be a huge help,” he says. “I’d owe you.” 

That’s what tips me over the edge to saying yes. I feel like I owe him, for the scarf. For the cookies. For, I don’t know, I can’t put my finger on it, exactly. And I can’t turn down the chance to balance the scales. 

I glance over at Madge. Friday, she’d had band practice, so I hadn’t gotten to make sure things were okay between us, and apologize, if I had to. I’d slipped a note into her locker—just saying hi, nothing direct or anything. It wasn’t the sort of thing I usually did. I just felt bad, and I didn’t really know what to do to make it better. I’d know if it were Prim. But other than with Prim, I’m usually much better at making people mad than making amends. Probably lack of practice. 

“But—lunch,” I say lamely, when Madge just looks back at me expectantly, eyebrows raised. 

She hands me half her sandwich and then makes a shooing motion with her hands. “There. Go.” 

“Are you sure?” I ask again. 

“More than. Anyway, I’ve got a biology test to study for.” 

I finally just break down and ask. “We’re okay?” 

“We’re okay,” Madge says. “I swear.” 

“Okay,” I say, relieved. 

“See you later, Madge,” Peeta says, as if the whole awkward conversation Madge and I just had didn’t happen. “And you’re coming this Friday, right?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Madge says. 

I make it almost the whole silent walk to the library before I give in to my curiosity. “What’s Friday?” 

“Party at one of the seniors’ houses,” Peeta says. He opens the door to the library and waits patiently while I figure out he’s waiting for me to go through first—then just shrugs good-naturedly when I balk and makes sure I can catch the door with my hand before he lets it go. 

“Oh,” I say. Madge has never mentioned going to any parties before. 

“You should come too,” Peeta says. 

“Why?” I ask, startled at the suggestion, though maybe I shouldn’t. Peeta’s nothing if not polite. Of course he’d have to invite me too, once I knew about it. 

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. It’s just that high school parties always sound a little like my version of hell: a bunch of drunk underage rich people and loud music. The refreshments are mostly beer and unidentifiable mixed drinks made of whatever the part goers can scrounge from their parents’ liquor cabinets. Not like I’m a connoisseur or anything. The only alcohol I ever remember us having in our house is a bottle of $3 wine, on a special occasion. It all still costs money. 

Then I see the surprised, hurt look on Peeta’s face and kind of feel bad. 

“It’s not really my scene,” I say lamely. 

“If you change your mind,” he replies, more stiffly than I’m used to, and I say, “Sure,” even though the chances of that are pretty slim. 

In the library we find a quiet corner with a table and chairs. It feels less public than I expected—like Peeta and I are alone together. There are a few other students there, working at the computers, and a whole class watching a film past that, in the multimedia room; the noise of the soundtrack carries. But otherwise, we have privacy. And maybe that’s a good thing, given what we’re planning to do. Especially if this is going to turn out like last week, on stage. 

All of a sudden, I’m nervous. I don’t like feeling exposed. And that’s exactly what Haymitch had done: made me feel exposed, raw, like a nerve. Vulnerable. The problem opposite the one Peeta has, I remind myself. That’s really why we’re here. I’m going to be asking him questions. And if I need to, I can leave. I can always leave. 

“So,” Peeta says. He looks nervous too, and it steadies me. 

I take a deep breath. “So, how do we . . .” I trail off. 

“You ask me questions,” he says, “and I’ll answer them, I guess.” 

“And try to be vulnerable,” I say. 

“Right,” he says. 

I think of everything I know about Peeta. I know that he’s on the wrestling team. I know that his family owns a bakery, and that he works there on the weekends. After school sometimes, too, I bet, now that I’m thinking about it. I know that his sister-in-law knits. I know he doesn’t have a girlfriend. I also know he likes someone, or at least that he pretended he did, to satisfy Haymitch. I think about how he invited Madge to the party on Friday, and how he keeps showing up at lunch. 

“Do you like working at the bakery?” I ask. 

Peeta smiles in relief, like he thought I’d ask something hard. “Working at the bakery is awesome,” he says, and then he pauses, and furrows his brow. “No. Wait. Ask me again.” He looks determined. 

I ask him again. 

“I like baking,” he says. “And I like the bakery. But the things is, I have two older brothers, right? And one of them lives in Michigan, and the other one’s in college, so I’m the only one at home, now. So sometimes it feels like I’ll be—stuck there, I guess. Like they get to get out, and I don’t, just because I’m the youngest.” 

“What do you mean stuck?” I’m more curious than I expected at his reply. At the cracks that are suddenly showing in his perfect façade. And then I wonder how intentional that is. If this is him being real, or if this is an act too. 

“I mean that someone has to take over the bakery when Dad and Mom retire, right? And it’s like it’s me by default. They never asked me if staying with the bakery is what I wanted. Everybody just assumes. Even though I think it is what I want. Or it would be.” 

I frown. “Aren’t you going to go to college?” The idea that he wouldn’t doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s what people like him do. 

He shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I guess. I’ll major in business, maybe. I do the books a lot already.” He smiles at me in a way I immediately distrust. It’s not his real smile, and it’s strange that I know the difference. Or feel like I do. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he asks me. 

“Not my turn,” I remind him. I make a show of thinking; really, I’m just buying time, trying to figure out what to ask. I’m not used to—talking to people, I guess. Finally, I fix on something. 

“New question,” I announce. “What is your most embarrassing memory?” 

“Seriously?” he asks. 

“You’re supposed to practice being vulnerable,” I challenge. 

“Yeah, but—” There’s color slowly suffusing Peeta’s face. I watch it with almost morbid fascination. 

I sit back, cross my arms, and wait. 

“Okay,” he says, running a hand through his hair. It ruffles up and doesn’t quite settle back to where it was. “Okay. You can’t—” 

“I won’t tell anybody.” 

“I was going to say you can’t judge me,” he says. His smile is crooked. 

“I can’t promise that,” I say. “Now spill.” 

“It was a couple of months ago, over the holidays,” he starts, “and I was home alone while Dad was at the bakery, and Mom and my brothers were out shopping, so I was, uh, taking advantage of that.” 

“Taking advantage of that how?” I ask, faking innocence. 

He looks pained. “You know.” 

I shake my head and he huffs out a breath. 

“Jerking off, okay?” 

“Okay,” I say, smirking. It covers the way my belly tightens unexpectedly. “And?” 

“And I’m still—uh . . . I’m still in the middle of . . . you know. When the door opens—it doesn’t lock—and my middle brother bursts in. And there’s a—it’s obvious, what I’m doing, but he’s as surprised as I am, I guess, because he doesn’t immediately just—leave. We’re both kind of frozen. And then my mom comes up behind him—” 

I try not to smile too much, because Peeta is bright red now. He’s clearly suffering. “That’s horrible,” I say. 

“It gets worse,” he says. He sounds miserable. “My oldest brother’s right behind her—they’d come back because my middle brother forgot something, and he was sleeping in the other bed in my room while he was home, but I’m not sure why all of them had to come upstairs for that . . . Anyway, my oldest brother sees what’s going on, and he just starts _laughing_ , and he can’t stop. He actually ends up on the ground almost hyperventilating. So I’m frantically pulling my—my pants back up, and trying to keep my—uh, my visual aid—covered up, and he’s gasping for breath and my mother’s yelling . . . It was like an out of body experience, I was so embarrassed.” 

“Visual aid?” I ask, mostly to tease him—but he turns even redder, which I didn’t think was possible. 

“I think that’s enough vulnerability for me for one day,” he says. “How’s your homework going?” 

Right. That. My mood turns immediately. 

I shrug uncomfortably. “It’s okay,” I lie. 

“Good,” he says. And then neither of us seem to know what to say next. In the silence, I notice that while we were playing interview, the library got busier. There’s a trio of freshman girls staring at us and whispering. It reminds me of how unnatural this is, well-liked jock Peeta Mellark and _that girl_ , sitting together like this. 

My mood darkens further, thinking about it—about it, and about the party. Not my scene, I’d said. _Peeta_ isn’t my scene. 

I don’t realize how long I’ve been silent until Peeta speaks. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to practice a little, at least?” 

Ouch. I narrow my eyes. 

“I didn’t mean because you’re bad at it!” he adds hastily. “But you spent most of your lunch period helping me. I just want to help you, too.” 

He looks so sincere, too—real sincere, not fake-interview sincere—like it’s a normal thing, people like us exchanging favors. But at least an even exchange is something I understand. 

“Maybe you could try to teach me that deflecting thing you do,” I say finally. 

He doesn’t reply immediately. 

I shift uncomfortably. “Or you could—not.” 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just—I don’t know if it’ll work for you.” 

I scowl. “I can be charming.” 

“No, that’s not—” He leans forward like he’s going to touch my hand or my arm, then hesitates, and pulls back. “What I do, mostly, is I lie. I tell as little of the truth as I think I can get away with and be believed.” 

“That’s not the same thing as lying,” I protest. 

“Isn’t it?” he asks, and he looks—upset about it, which I don’t understand. “Look, Katniss, you’re—you’re so direct. I’ve never seen you try to be anything other than what you are, and I—I really like that about you. I guess I hesitated because I don’t like the idea of you changing that just for a stupid competition.” 

I believe him. I believe him because he sounds the same way he did before, answering my embarrassing moment question. But I don’t know how I feel about what he’s saying. About my being direct or about him liking that. 

“But if you want to learn, I’ll help you,” he says more firmly. His eyes meet mine across the table, clear and steady, and instead of looking away, I hold his gaze, and I nod. I want to learn. 

“The first thing you have to think about,” he begins, “is exactly how much you’re willing to let them to know . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long break between chapters, I know; thanks for sticking with me!


	16. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, fellow Americans! I am thankful for you guys, for reading and occasionally commenting and generally being patient with my slow progress. :)

It turns out I am terrible at deflecting. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise; I have the same problem when it comes to fighting moves. I’ve made myself learn moves that deflect and misdirect well enough to teach them, but I prefer to attack head-on—and if not attack, then avoid. But interviews aren’t like debates, where I could fight back directly. And there’s no avoiding them, either. 

There isn’t much time left in the lunch period anyway. But a few of the things Peeta says still manage to stick with me. They come back to me that night as I struggle to sleep, staying as still as I can so as not to wake Prim. 

_No one’s going to fact check you, as long as what you say makes sense to them._  

And: 

_Surprise them before they can surprise you._  

And: 

_They just want a good story. Even if it’s one you made up._  

It makes me wonder where he learned all this—where these rules of his come from. 

I think about the way things had gone the week before, and what I could have done differently, all the next day. And it’s not until Tuesday night after work, digging through some old boxes with Prim in search of a book she wanted to read before bed, that I come up with the final item for the list Haymitch assigned me. 

On Wednesday afternoon, Haymitch calls me up first again, not even looking at me as he says my name. I’ve been tense since the final bell rang. When I stand, Peeta gives me an encouraging smile, which I have to ignore because if I don’t, I’m afraid the careful hold I have on my composure will crack. My body is buzzing with nerves. There’s nothing real at stake here; I am not in danger of anything other than humiliation. Still, fear and determination grip me in equal measure. 

I remember another piece of Peeta’s advice: _Don’t let them see they’ve upset you._ This much, at least, I can do. I school my features carefully as I take the steps, and when I lower myself into the same chair on stage, I look up at Haymitch and force my lips into a smile. He scowls. 

“List,” he barks at me. 

I grit my teeth and fight to keep my voice neutral to match my still-smiling expression. I won’t let him get to me. Not so soon, at least. This time, I am ready for him. 

“My sister Prim,” I say. 

“But not your parents,” Haymitch needles. 

“But not my parents,” I repeat. I move quickly to the second item on my list. “Shop class.” 

Haymitch’s eyebrow raises. “Really?” 

“Really,” I snap, then take a deep, careful breath. 

“Number three?” 

“My job.” And I add before he can ask, “I teach kickboxing and self-defense.” My job is dangerous territory, given where I learned how to do it and why, but I’m prepared for that. 

“Number four,” I say, “is the woods,” though this is the one I most hope Haymitch won’t follow up on, because it leads back to my father. I try a little misdirection, like Peeta tried to teach me. 

“And number five . . .” I glance at Peeta, and my mouth turns up again slightly. “Number five is my deep devotion to baked goods.” 

* 

At the end I am dry-eyed and mostly calm, and Haymitch says, “Better,” grudgingly. 

Peeta does better, too. He is still joking, still smiling, but a few times his eyes search out mine and it is as if he is slowly peeling back a mask and letting me, letting Haymitch—letting Ms. Trinket, who is in attendance this week, sitting quietly (for her) a few rows behind me—see beneath. His voice lowers; he sounds almost raw. 

But these moments seem a little too careful. They seem too controlled. Maybe I only notice because it’s different than the way he spoke at lunch on Monday. His words follow one another easily, without the halting or repetition I remember from before. 

Still, we both do well, and after Haymitch releases us, when Peeta offers, I let him drive me home. 

I’m on such a high from my success that the reasons I’ve given myself before don’t even occur to me. It’s similar to the feeling I remember from when I was first learning to fight: pride in pushing past my previous limitations. Satisfaction in having been successful at something that was once beyond my grasp. I’m almost giddy with it. 

I don’t say much to Peeta except to tell him where to turn, but when he turns the radio on low, I hum along. Peeta notices, of course. It’s a small car. But he doesn’t say anything, and as long as he stays silent, I can pretend he doesn’t hear. It is a careful fiction we have constructed, and I feel strangely pleased at the idea of it. Like we are a team. 

As it has every other time I’ve ridden with Peeta in his car, when he shifts gears it attracts my attention to his hand on the stick between us. This time when I start to think about the length of his fingers, the width of his palm, I don’t shut my thoughts down. I remember the way his hand felt during the photo shoot that weekend, a steady presence in and around mine as the camera flashed and flashed. 

I catch Peeta looking at me as we wait for a stoplight to turn green, and instead of looking away, I smile. He smiles, too. 

It isn’t very long before he pulls up to my house. I forget how much shorter the ride is, without the extra stops the bus makes. 

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him, as I slide out of the car, bag in tow. _Thanks for the help on Monday_. The glow of success has faded some, but I still feel warm and content. Even happy. 

“Anytime,” he says back. “Oh, wait, hey, Katniss—” 

He reaches behind him, where his backpack lays on the backseat, and rummages around inside as I stand awkwardly by the open passenger door. He finds what he’s looking for and holds the tinfoil package out to me. Our fingers brush as I take it, and something in my stomach flutters. 

“More extra cookies from Home Ec,” he clarifies. “They’re peanut butter this time.” 

My number five. Baked goods. 

“Prim’s favorite,” I say, unthinking, as I accept them. 

“Yeah?” he asks, smiling. “What about you? What’s your favorite?” 

I think. “Chocolate chip,” I decide after a few moments. 

“Good choice,” he says, and I feel oddly pleased at his approval. 

“Anyway,” he says, “enjoy the peanut butter. See you tomorrow? In English?” 

“See you then,” I say, and swing his door shut. 

I peel open the tinfoil as I cross the grass to our door, and inhale the smell of the cookies inside. Definitely peanut butter. I smile, thinking about how excited Prim will be. 

I go to unlock the door with one hand, and discover it already unlocked, which is unusual. “Prim?” I call as I walk in, but it’s our mother who greets me, face haggard, dishcloth twisted between her hands. 

There’s something wrong; she’s not supposed to be home yet. She lowers her hands, and there’s a roaring in my ears as she begins to speak. 

“Katniss. Prim’s doctor called.”


	17. Seventeen

Cray and a couple of the other guys from the football team (the one Cray has never made it onto, and not for lack of trying) are standing at the top of the stairs when I walk up from the parking lot. I'm later than usual; I missed my usual bus, so I had to take the one after. It means that instead of arriving to a near-deserted school, students are already crowding the outside spaces, and I am barely going to make the first bell.

Cray grins when he sees me coming. My head is hot and aches from lack of sleep; whatever he has up his way too heavily starched sleeve, I'm not in the mood for it. I'm not even sure why I'm here—why I didn't just stay home. Habit, I guess.

"Well, if it isn't little Miss Blue Ridge," Cray says slyly as I reach the top step. His buddies have quieted around him, I guess because their conversations just aren't as scintillating as Cray being an asshole.

"Good morning to you, too, Bobby," I say sweetly, not even pausing as I pass.

"Heard about your little extra curricular," he continues, following right after me.

For a moment I'm confused, because he sounds too excited to be talking about my job, or my after-hours woodshop work, and my mind's on other things. Then he says, "Never took you for a pageant girl, Everdeen. I mean, Mellark, sure," and I miss a step and stumble, nearly losing my footing entirely.

"Gotta practice that walk, huh, beauty queen?" Cray mocks from behind me. "Let me know if you need any help practicing your  _talent_."

"Go fuck yourself, Cray," I spit out over the laughter of his friends, feeling shame flash hot and cold under my skin. It's not like I care what Cray thinks, or what Cray says. I'm used to ignoring him, or sniping back at him. But if he knows, it means half the school will know before long, because Cray never keeps his mouth shut.

The giggles and the whispers I'm already noticing around me as I storm furiously through the courtyard and into the building are the last thing I need today; they make my head pound even more. I'm used to not being liked. I prefer it; it means people leave me alone. This is different.

I find Peeta's homeroom and walk straight up to his seat. I slam my hands down hard on his desk. " _What did you tell him?_ "

He looks up, startled. "What? Katniss, who are you—"

"That piece of  _shit_ , Cray," I hiss. "What did you tell him about the—" I gesture violently with my hands

"Nothing!" Peeta protests. "I swear, I haven't said a word!"

My breath is coming too fast; I can feel the fury and all the helplessness I'm feeling boil up inside of me. I shouldn't be this angry. I know I shouldn't be this angry. But I can't stop it.

"Then  _how does he know?_ "

"Miss Everdeen!"

I whip my head around. Peeta's homeroom teacher—my history teacher—is standing in the front of the room. I don't know how long she's been there. Maybe the whole time.

"I don't believe this is your homeroom, Miss Everdeen," she says. "Please go there. And calm down."

With a growl, I spin on my heel and stalk out of the room, hearing the nervous titters of laughter behind me.

I'm late to my own homeroom, and I don't respond to the warning I'm given as I slam into my usual seat at the back. I put my head down on my arms and close my eyes. The anger is starting to ebb now, the blaze of it dying back down to embers.

I take a deep, careful breath, then another, trying to calm the way I'm trembling.  _Control, Kat_ , I can hear Homes's voice say in my head.  _You're in control_. But I don't feel that way.

It's not like the pageant was a secret. Peeta hadn't promised not to say anything. I guess I just thought we had an understanding. He'd lied before, when Cray asked what he was doing with Madge and me, at lunch.

But no matter how hard I'm trying not to think about it, I know that's not what's really wrong.

My homeroom teacher calls role. When she gets to "Everdeen, Katniss," I raise my head just enough to mutter, "Here," and immediately wish I hadn't. Instead of being busy with last minute homework or messing with their phones or whatever, my classmates are busy trying to pretend like they aren't looking at me. Most of them, anyway. There's a cluster of girls just to my left who are giggling and staring at me outright. A guy two rows over who makes me feel like I need to take a shower.

It isn't normal. And it can't be about the scene in Peeta's homeroom; that couldn't have spread this far, this quickly. So it must be about the pageant. But even Cray doesn't work this fast.

"Children!" our teacher snaps, and the majority of them give her their attention as she finishes taking attendance. But not everyone.

I keep my head up for the rest of homeroom, a glare on my face, even though I want nothing more than to put my head back down and shut everything out. I can't stop them from staring or whispering, but I can at least discourage them from doing anything more than that. It's something I got plenty of practice with, in New York, where my clothes never fit and my dirty hair, longer then, was always tangled, until I learned how to twist it into a braid—until I just cut it off. It's how I got in trouble to begin with, there: trying to make sure people were afraid of me.

When the bell rings, I give everyone else a head start. I don't want any of them walking behind me. I'm irritated when one girl lingers— _Cartwright, Delly_ , I dredge out of my memory. One of the girls who sits at Peeta's table at lunch. I scowl harder.

"Hey, Katniss," she says, even though she's never talked to me before.

"What do you want?" I snap.

She falters, but forges ahead anyway. It reminds me of Peeta.

"I just wanted to say I thought you looked real pretty in the pictures."

A growing sense of horror makes my stomach tighten. "Pictures?"

"Oh, you didn't . . . hold on—" She twists around and pulls something out of her backpack. The school newspaper. It comes out every two weeks and it's read pretty heavily, for a school publication. Delly thumbs through until she finds what she's looking for, then opens it all the way and holds it out to me.

"Keep it," she says, smiling nervously. "I have to get to class."

I'm sure she thinks she's being nice, and maybe I should thank her, or something, but I'm too dumbfounded to do anything but stare. There, on the printed newspaper page, are pictures of me and Peeta from this weekend, next to the headline, "Blue Ridge High School is pleased to announce its representatives to this year's Pan-American High School Scholarship Pageant Competition: juniors Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark."

Alongside an article I can't bear to read are headshots of each of us, and a longer shot of the both of us. It's not one of the ones where we're holding hands, at least. Peeta looks the same way he always does, just in black and white, but I look nothing like myself. In the close-up, I am looking right at the camera. I am almost expressionless, which would be comforting except instead of making me look tough and unreadable, I look unguarded. Vulnerable.

In the other image I am in the background, a few steps behind and to the right of Peeta, arms crossed. And while my expression is familiar from the mirror in the morning—serious mouth, hard eyes—the rest of me, in the black dress and tights and heels, does not. It's . . . sexier than I'm used to, though it's not like I'm showing any skin. I don't look strong, or I don't look  _just_  strong; I look provocative. It makes me uncomfortable.

There are students starting to file into the room for the next class period, and I shove my way out of the classroom, paper still clenched in one hand, feeling sick.

I think about just—leaving. They lock the back gates during the school days so students' cars can't leave campus, but there are ways around the fence on foot and the bus passes by once every half hour.

But I don't. I go to English instead, even though I know it means seeing Peeta.

The sick feeling only increases when I find him standing right outside the classroom door. He is waiting for me, I assume, given what happened less than an hour ago, and the way he says, "Katniss!" urgent and worried, when he sees me coming.

"Sorry," I mutter, thrusting the still-crumpled paper at him as I push past him into the classroom. I can't even look him in the eye.

"So you know I didn't say anything to Cray," he says.

He keeps his voice low but he's followed me to my seat and people are staring. He should be  _mad_  at me, but it's like he's more worried about me being mad.

"I know," I choke out. "I'm  _sorry_."

"I hope you know I'd never—"

"Just—stop," I interrupt, and I'm mortified at how my voice cracks on the word  _stop_.

He looks startled, then furrows his brow. "Katniss, are you okay?"

I put a hand out between us, palm facing him, even though he hasn't made a move toward me. "Stop," I say— _beg_. "Just—please, not—"

"Not now?"

I nod my head violently. People are still staring. I just need him to  _go away_.

"Later," I say, even though I don't mean it.

"Okay," he says slowly.

I turn away.

During class, I pretend I don't notice whenever he glances over. I'm out of the room as soon as the period is over. And later, at lunch, when I see him talking to Madge, I hide in the bathroom instead. I'm not up to the lunch yard anyway, and I'm not up to Peeta's concern.

In the bathroom, I lock myself into the stall on the end and sit on the seat, because it's that or the floor, and I don't remember the last time this floor looked clean. I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, but when I close them, I start to feel dizzy. That's when I remember—I haven't eaten since yesterday at lunch. I grab my bag and start digging through it, just in case; sometimes I have a protein bar in there leftover from work and don't realize it.

In an uncharacteristic fit of maternal concern last night, my mother made spaghetti, and actually seemed concerned whether or not I ate it. I just couldn't, not after—

My fingers close over something cool and crinkly, and I remember: Peeta's cookies. I'd put them in my bag last night, planning to at least give them to Prim this morning, to take with her to school. I'd been so tired I'd forgotten.

Even though I'm in the bathroom and eating anything here seems kind of gross, I carefully take a cookie out of the tinfoil. Tears blur my eyes and I let them as I take a shaky bite. I chew slowly, tasting my tears along with the peanut butter of the cookie.

I only eat one, just to get something into my stomach, but I still feel guilty.

These should have been for Prim.

I wrap the rest back up and return them to my bag. Then I rest my head on my knees and sob until the bell tells me I have to go to class.


	18. Eighteen

I’m almost pleasantly numb the rest of the afternoon, too wrung out to feel much other than the exhaustion that makes my head feel thick and my feet slow. I brace myself for seeing Gale in shop class, but he gets there late with a scowl and a bandage wrapped around his right hand. 

“What happened?” I ask him, alarmed. 

He shrugs, and I frown. Then he says, “Sucks about the photos, Catnip,” and it’s my turn to shrug. 

“That dress was pretty hot, though.” 

I push his shoulder and feel a little bit better, having him there, working beside me. 

I stay after class to work on Prim’s present. The next step is sanding it, which doesn’t take much coordination if I do it by hand, and the idea of going home before work makes me queasy. Prim and our mother will be at the doctor’s. And while a nap would, I’m sure, do me good, I can’t imagine being able to sleep. 

So instead, I work. I’ve worn out one sanding pad and am most of the way through a second when I notice there’s someone standing in the doorway. I look up. 

“Hi,” I say, startled. 

“Hey,” Peeta says. He looks awkward in a way I’ve rarely seen him. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I was just—walking by, and I saw you.” 

“Okay,” I say, warily. Then I remember how I’d said _Later_ , that morning, and I tense. He must want to talk about it. But I don’t. There’s almost nothing I want to talk about less. 

Except he just asks, “Are you working on anything exciting?” 

“Bookcase,” I say. 

“For class?” His eyes flit around the room, as if looking for other bookcases. 

“For Prim,” I say, feeling my throat tighten. _No, no, no. Not thinking_ _about that_. “It’s for her birthday next month.” 

Peeta smiles, full out. “That’s awesome,” he says. “She’s lucky to have a sister like you.” 

My heart clenches at that. I have to fight back tears, and it makes me angry. It takes so much work to hold myself together, and he’s undoing it with just a few words. 

He’s still hovering awkwardly at the door, like he’s waiting for an invitation, and I know my anger is irrational—I know that, what he’s doing, he doesn’t mean to—so I push it down and ask, maybe a little harshly, “Are you going to come in, or what?” 

“If I won’t bother you,” he says, unfailingly polite. 

I point to the bin of sandpaper by the door. “Just bring me some sandpaper,” I say, and he does, handing me a fresh piece before sitting on a stool a few feet away, still wearing his backpack. I discard the used up piece and start sanding with the new one, letting the sound and the movement and my breathing calm me again, taking me to a place I don’t have to think. 

“It looks beautiful,” Peeta says after a little bit, and I realize I’d almost forgotten he was there. It makes me flush a little bit, even though it’s his fault, for being so quiet. 

I glance over my shoulder to look at him. “It will be, I think.” 

“I like the way you did the steps,” he says, gesturing to the top, and I put down the sandpaper to try to look at the structure the way he must be. 

The bookshelf is three shelves high and shaped like a V from above, built to fit into the corner by Prim’s side of the bed. On the right side there’s a low shelf without a top for Prim’s lamp and a book, and then a medium shelf for pictures, and a tall one so that all her book will fit. The other side steps down the same way. It’s turning out well. The wood isn’t exactly pretty, but it’s sturdy, and straight, and that’s what paint’s for, right? Once I’m done sanding, I still need to seal it. Paint comes after that. The color will depend on what Mr. Adams has available; I can’t exactly afford a new can. But I know Prim won’t care. 

“It’s turning out okay,” I say finally. I can hear the satisfaction in my one voice. 

“How long have you been working on it?” Peeta asks, and I shrug. 

“A couple months. Had to plan ahead.” 

“Just after school?” 

I nod and keep sanding. 

“Have the Wednesday meetings put you behind?” Peeta asks thoughtfully. 

“Not much,” I mutter, and it’s more or less true. “A little. I’ll be cutting it close.” 

Peeta makes a little _hmm_ noise. “Planning to paint it?" 

“Eventually,” I say, turning the sandpaper in my hand to a fresh spot. Then something occurs to me. I look at Peeta. “Don’t you have wrestling practice?” 

“Cancelled because of injury,” he says. “School rules, one of the guys twisted his ankle. He’s going to be fine.” Peeta rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t even wrestling, he just tripped over his own backpack in the locker room.” 

The answer surprises a laugh out of me, and Peeta looks pleased, and finally like he’s relaxed. 

“Do you mind if I hang out here and do my homework?” he asks. “I have a shift at the bakery at 5, and there’s no point going home in between.” 

I have my Thursday night class to run downtown at 6, so I’m in the same boat. 

“Sure,” I say as I start sanding again. “Knock yourself out.” 

Later I remember that the shop classroom is a long way in the wrong direction from the gym to the parking lot. He was checking up on me. And I don’t mind it nearly as much as I should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I also posted two new related scenes in the Related Scenes "story" here, as new chapters. One is a scene that got cut, with Katniss and Gale from between chapters 12 and 13, and the other is a little background on Peeta's, um, visual aid from chapter 15.


	19. Nineteen

It’s at lunch the next day that Madge brings up the party. We’re at an actual table, because Madge almost always arrives before me and that’s where she sat. I don’t ask her about it but I’m pretty sure it’s because she expects Peeta to join us. It occurs to me to wonder if they ate lunch together the day before, when I didn’t show up, and I place that thought carefully in the back of my mind with the other things I’m trying not to think about. 

“You should come with me tonight,” Madge says after I’ve taken the first sandwich bite. I glare at her because she did that on purpose—waited until my mouth was full and I couldn’t speak to say no right off. 

“Maybe it’ll be good,” she continues. “Cheer us both up.” 

Both. She means me, mostly. Even though I haven’t told her what’s wrong, she knows me well enough to know that something is. Something more than just those stupid pictures. I scowl at her, mouth still full. 

Then she pulls out the big guns: “I don’t want to go alone. Please, Katniss?” 

She never asks for anything. And if I’m honest, I don’t really want to be at home, anyway. 

I swallow. “Fine.” 

She smiles at me—a small smile, no teeth, just a grateful stretch of her lips. “It’ll be fun,” she says, but she sounds like she means it just about as much as I would, which is not at all. 

I’m trying to decide whether I should ask her why she even wants to go when it sounds like it’s the last thing she’s interested in doing, but then Peeta sits down next to Madge, on her right, and across from me at the four-sided table. 

“Hey,” he says, starting to unpack his lunch like what he’s doing is the most natural thing in the world. 

After yesterday, I’d braced myself this morning as I’d entered English class. I was paranoid he’d do something to ruin my attempts to keep a low profile until the picture thing blew over, but he’d just given me a quick, hesitant smile in greeting, like he’d been doing before. Everything today had been _normal_. Even though, inside, it felt like nothing was. 

Yesterday night, after I’d finished sanding Prim’s bookcase, I’d gone into work to teach my Thursday night class. I shouldn’t have, I wasn’t functional enough to do much more than make sure no one got hurt. But I had. I knew we couldn’t afford for me not to, and keeping busy was—good. I came home late and blurry-eyed to a reproachful look from my mother. 

“Prim asked where you were,” she’d said quietly as I dropped my bag on the floor by the door and turned the lock. “You should have come home after school. You’re exhausted.” 

 _Some of us don’t just stop going to work whenever we feel like it_ , I’d thought, ignoring her in favor of going straight to Prim and my bedroom to crash. Prim was already asleep, pale, but with a pink flush high on her cheeks. I watched her, her thin chest rising and falling with her breathing, until I fell asleep. 

“Katniss said she’d come with me to the party tonight,” Madge tells Peeta, accepting one of the little pastry puffs he offers her 

“Oh, yeah?” he says, smiling at me as he offers the bag of pastry puffs to me, too. “That’s awesome.” 

I shrug. “I guess.” 

Peeta continues to hold out the bag. After a brief hesitation, I take a pastry too. 

“What changed your mind?” Peeta asks 

“Madge begged,” I say, mostly to get back at her. 

Peeta glances at Madge. “Really?” 

Madge only smiles, enigmatic. 

I bite into the pastry puff. The flaky crust melts on my tongue and then the taste of the savory cheese inside it fills my mouth. I don’t realize I’ve made a noise until I see both Peeta and Madge are looking at me—Madge with not-very-well-suppressed amusement, and Peeta with an expression I cannot read. 

“It’s—good,” I finish lamely, swallowing. 

“Have as many as you want,” Peeta says. He sounds a little hoarse. 

I’m still trying to process that when Bobby Cray drops his bookbag on our table, displacing Peeta’s bags and my half of Madge’s sandwich, and sits down in the empty seat. “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite beauty queens.” 

Madge almost trips over her own feet as she stands. “Bathroom,” she says when I look at her, already backing away from the table. 

“Weirdo,” Cray grumbles. It draws my attention, and I turn back just in time to see him popping one of Peeta’s pastry puffs into his mouth. 

“What do you want, Bobby?” Peeta asks. He doesn’t sound nearly as friendly as he did the last time Cray came over during lunch. He doesn’t even sound fake friendly. 

“Maybe I came to ask Katniss here on a date.” 

He says it to Peeta rather than me—not that I’d think he was serious either way. Still, my stomach goes queasy. 

It’s not like there’s anything new about Cray harassing me; he’s been doing it for months. But there’s something different about it since yesterday. It’s not just what he’s been saying, though that’s changed, too; it’s been all “Nice ass, Everdeen” and “Anytime you want to work on that _oral interview_.” It’s something in the way he looks at me when he says it. It bothers me in a way the old sniping didn’t. Yesterday I thought it was just because I was so tired. But it’s something else. 

I rip a piece of the sandwich off a little too violently. “Be still my beating heart,” I mutter, and then wish I hadn’t, because Cray’s gaze focuses in on me. 

“Wear that dress from the pictures, and you and me could—“ 

“Shut _up_ , Bobby,” Peeta says, and I look at him, so startled I forget to be irritated at him for defending me. I’ve never heard him sound angry before. “Leave her alone.” 

“You can’t call dibs, Mellark,” Cray says, sounding pissed, too, rather than just skeezy and smug like usual. 

“I just want you to stop being such a jackass, _Cray_ ,” Peeta snaps, and Cray makes an ugly sound. 

“Just ’cause you’ve had a huge fucking hard-on for Everdeen here since September—” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Peeta hisses, but there’s more than anger in his voice this time. There’s panic. 

He’s staring at me now, terror-stricken, and though Cray’s still talking, I can’t make out the words. In the back of my mind, I know I should be saying . . . should be saying _something_. But I can’t. I can’t seem to put words together into a coherent sentence, much less actually speak. 

Memories flash through my brain: Peeta coming to find me in the workshop yesterday. Madge saying Peeta hadn’t been at lunch to talk to _her_. The interview with Haymitch: _There is this one girl._  

Oh. _Oh_. 

Wait. What? 

“I have to go,” I blurt out, stumbling away from the table in a daze. I am dimly aware of my backpack strap in my hand, the weight of it unbalancing me and the catch of its fabric as it drags on the ground. 

“Katniss, wait,” I hear Peeta say behind me, and I hear Cray’s ugly, ugly laugh, but I just keep moving. 

 _Just keep moving_. I can outrun everything, if I just keep moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas Eve! Chapter 20, with actual info about Prim, will be up very soon, I promise.
> 
> In the meantime, I wrote and posted a little Peeta/Katniss coffee shop AU you could check out. I needed a little break from the unrelenting angst. :)


	20. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to warn for some trigger-y stuff at the end of the chapter. It's pretty lightly handled, but it's there.

Even before Madge and I walk through the door I can tell coming to this party is a mistake. I can hear the thump of the music’s bass line as we approach the house, and the place looks like a cliché of a high school party: cars parked at odd angles in the circular drive out in front of the three-story brick residence; a handful of teenagers out on the porch, a few of them smoking. 

Inside, it’s loud, and bright, and everyone’s clearly had too much alcohol already. I feel profoundly out of place in my old jeans, even with Madge’s floaty black top and the gray eyeliner and hair gel she made me use. All the other girls are in short skirts or skin-tight pants. There’s a lot of cleavage. 

Madge seems to be having a similar change of heart about the whole thing, but at least she looks like she belongs. She’s wearing opaque tights under the skirt and her blouse is buttoned all the way up, but her hair is curled just the same way, and her makeup is impeccable. 

I follow Madge to the kitchen, where she pours us each a beer straight from the keg. “Here’s to having fun,” she says grimly, and I tap her red plastic solo cup with mine before taking a long, deep swallow. 

I don’t drink often, or much—it’s not just the cost; I don’t like feeling out of control—but something tells me I’m going to need a little alcohol to get through this. 

I’d tried to back out of coming. I hadn’t told Madge what happened at lunch, while she was away from the table, but maybe she talked to Peeta, because she seemed to already know. 

“It’s not a book club, Katniss,” she’d said. “It’s a  _party._ There are enough people there that you won’t have to see . . . anyone you don’t want to see.” 

So I came. 

Maybe you get used to people liking you; maybe it feels nice, like a compliment. I wouldn’t know. This, the idea of Peeta liking me, just makes me feel uncomfortable. 

Earlier, I sat on the edge of Madge’s bathtub, my first time in her house, while she heated up her curling iron and did her makeup, staring at my own face in the mirror. My cheeks were less hollow than I remembered, but far from healthy-looking. My mouth was thin, my eyes prominent in the eyeliner. My hair was carefully styled by Madge’s practiced fingers, a little like the newspaper pictures but not as spiky. I couldn’t see what someone would find especially attractive. Not to mention I was flat-chested and thin-limbed. I’d never cared before, not really; it bothered me that I was caring at all now. 

Maybe Cray was making it up. Maybe Peeta only looked panicked because of how I overreacted the day before to the pictures in the paper, not because it was true. The idea, however implausible makes the knot in my stomach ease, but not a lot. Not for long. 

Part of me wishes I could just . . . ignore it. Probably Peeta would let me. But the idea of it makes me feel like a coward. We have to see each other in class, and then at least twice a week until the stupid pageant. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him. _Thank you_? _That’s nice_? _Were the cookies just a way to get into my pants?_ Avoiding him, for tonight at least, is a lot easier than figuring that out. 

Beers in hand, Madge and I move into the living room. Neither of us tries to talk over the music; Madge seems as absorbed in her thoughts as I am in mine. 

I see Gale come through the door with a few guys from the newspaper—other seniors, guys I know he used to hang out with more before Hazelle’s work hours changed and Gale had to quit taking photos for the paper, beginning of the year, to help more with the kids. The gauze from earlier is gone from around his hand. I nudge Madge and point. 

“Go ahead, say hi,” Madge says—or mouths, for all I can hear her. “I’m going to . . .” She waves her hand, and after I’ve nodded I realize she means _find Peeta_. She reaches out and squeezes my hand. In support, or for it, I don’t know. 

When I get to Gale his back’s to me, so I just slide up beside him and nudge him the way I nudged Madge. “Hey!” I shout. 

He looks surprised to see me, but wraps an around my shoulders and squeezes. “Nice shirt,” he says. 

“It’s Madge’s,” I reply, pulling a face, and he laughs. 

We end up in the den where a couple of guys are playing Wii and the music’s almost at normal decibels. I’m on my second or third beer; I’ve lost track. Gale’s got a flask he sips from every couple of minutes. I haven’t seen Madge in awhile, but I’m not worried; it’s not _that_ big of a house. I’m sure I’ll be able to find her, when I need to, and that if she needed to, she could find me. 

I lay my head back on the couch we’re sitting on and stare at the ceiling. I’m feeling kind of loose and warm from the alcohol. Not fuzzy, really. Just secure. 

“So Peeta likes me,” I say out of nowhere. 

Gale snorts beside me. “No shit.” 

I jerk straight up. “You knew?” I hit his arm, hard. “You jerk, you didn’t say anything!” 

“Catnip, anybody with _eyes_ knows. He hasn’t been real subtle the last couple of weeks.” 

“What am I going to _do_?” I moan, letting myself sink back into the couch cushions. 

Dimly, I realize Gale is laughing at me. 

“What?” 

“Do _you_ like _him_?” Gale asks. 

I scowl instead of answering, and he rolls his eyes. “You know, Katniss, don’t have to do anything, just because he thinks you’re hot.” 

I scowl even harder. “How do you know he doesn’t like me for my sparkling personality?” I say. “ _You_ don’t hang out with me for my looks.” 

“That’s different,” Gale says, and maybe it’s the beer, but he almost sounds sad. “Look, Catnip, you’re awesome. It’s great that he’s smart enough to notice. But you don’t owe him anything because of it.” 

“Maybe,” I mutter.

I grab my beer cup, but it’s empty, so I steal Gale’s flask instead. Then I thrust it back to him, coughing. 

“What _is that_?” 

Gale grins. “ _That_ is Virginia Moonshine,” he says. “The guy we get our eggs from brews it in his barn.” We get our eggs, when we get eggs, from Wal-Mart, but Gale knows a farmer who’ll trade for labor. “I swiped it from Mom’s cabinet.”

“God, put it _back_ ,” I say. “That’s _gross_.” 

He just laughs and takes another swallow. 

I have to go get another drink just to get the taste out of my mouth, so I head for the kitchen. No soft drinks or juice; they’ve already been used as mixers, I guess. I try water, but it doesn’t work. So, reluctantly, I grab another beer. I should find Madge and see if she’s ready to go home after this anyway. 

I’m making my way back to the game room when I see Peeta. He’s all the way across the room, talking with a guy I don’t know, but his eyes are drifting around the room, and so he sees me, too. 

Our eyes lock and I freeze, though what I want to do is run. Peeta looks uncertain, like he wants to move toward me, but is holding himself back. We stare at each other for a few beats; then, thankfully, I unfreeze, and dart back out of the room. 

I manage to find an unused bathroom, and shut and lock the door. I gulp down about half of my beer, shaking a little, then realize how unsteady I’m already feeling and dump the rest down the sink drain. I’m more than ready to go home. 

I relinquish the bathroom to the line that’s started outside the door and find Gale, careful to take a different route back to the game room. When I tell him I’m going, he offers to help me look for Madge. 

We don’t find her on the main floor. When we get to the steps, I gesture up them; Gale shouts that he’ll stay downstairs and keep an eye out, just in case. 

The second floor is quieter than the first. The music is muted and the lights are lower. There’s a line for the bathroom at the very top of the stairs, longer than for the bathroom by the kitchen, but beyond that it’s all closed and mostly closed doors. I can hear scattered laugher behind a few, and . . . other noises, faintly, behind others. 

I’m pretty sure Madge isn’t up here, and I’m about to turn back when I see Cray exiting the bathroom. After lunch today, I’m interested in attracting his attention only a little less than I am in talking to Peeta, so I duck into one of the still-open doors to avoid it. 

The room I’ve ducked into seems to be the master bedroom—unless all the bedrooms are this big. It’s the size of half our apartment, easy, and it looks like a page out of a catalog. There’s another door (to another bathroom, I assume; how many does this place have?) beside the open closet doors. Even the clothes inside look unreal—like they’ve been staged. I wonder where the party thrower’s parents are tonight, and if they know this is what happens in their house, when they’re gone. I snort a little, thinking about how many parties I could throw if I wanted to, with how often my mother isn’t there. Though she’s there now, I know. With Prim. Because I can’t manage to— 

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to control my breathing. The beer had been making it easier not to think about everything, but now it’s like it’s torn down all my carefully constructed walls. The fear and helplessness are starting to seep back in. 

Cray should be long gone by now; I need to find Madge so we can get out here. 

I pull the door toward me to open it, and Cray is standing in the doorway. 

“Just the girl I was looking for,” he breathes down on me from where he’s leaning on the doorframe, blocking my exit. 

He’s big—I forget how big he is, most of the time, or how small I am, maybe—and my stomach clenches in instinctual terror. His breath reeks of alcohol, something harder than beer. His lips are curved into a lazy smile, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, but there’s something sharp and predatory there, too. 

I narrow mine, and take a few unsteady steps back, regretting every beer I’ve had in my hand that night. “What do you want, Cray?” 

“Just to play a little game,” he says—slurs, practically. He lurches forward, pushing the door shut behind him. I hear a click. The lock. “You like to play, don’t you, kitty?” 

I stumble back further, feeling dizzy, trying to gauge my best route to the door. He’s cornering me—like a cat up a tree—and if I were sober I know I could make it, but I don’t know how far off I am from my usual speed, or whether I can trust my reflexes. I feel slower, more distant, with every moment that passes, like my brain’s been disconnected from my body. This isn’t like in practice, against a sparring partner. It isn’t even like self-defense class, not really. 

I’m not focused on him the way I should be—I’m focused on the way my heart is pounding, the sluggishness of my brain—and so it takes me by surprise when he lunges forward, grabbing for my wrists, crowding me back toward the catalog-perfect bed. I yelp, a high, strangled sound, and try to kick. He laughs, and makes a shushing sound, and closes his fingers around my arms, and for a moment I am paralyzed, panic hot and cold in my veins—and then it’s like muscle memory takes over, and I shove my elbows forward and under, twisting. He curses viciously as I break his hold, and reaches for me again, and with as much force as my shaking arm can muster, drive the heel of my hand into his nose. Then I bring my knee up hard and sharp between his legs. 

I stumble back as he goes down. The back of my thighs hit the bed. Someone’s pounding violently on the door, but I can’t make myself move. It’s all my legs can do just to hold me up. I’m trembling, my breath coming in gasps. Then there’s a cracking noise, and the door flies open. Peeta is framed in the doorway, face red. He must have broken it down. Broken the lock. 

He takes in the room, Cray on the ground in front of me and bleeding from the nose, and I can tell the exact moment he understands what’s happened. He smiles, but it’s empty of anything but a grim satisfaction. 

“Good work,” he says. 

I look down at Cray again—at the unnatural angle of his broken nose, at the way he’s curled around his groin—and sprint for the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I lose everything in my stomach.


	21. Twenty-One

I retch once, twice more, then still, miserably, with my head against the cold porcelain bowl. I can hear the music of the party, muted, from downstairs. The sound of laughter, closer. All of it feels far away. Somewhere else. 

Here, there’s a touch on my bare arm. It’s tentative, the pressure light. Peeta. 

“Can I get you anything?” he’s asking softly. 

I almost laugh. “A do-over,” I mutter, the sound harsh in my raw throat. A do-over for this day. A do-over for my life. 

“How about we start with some water,” he says. 

I hear the faucet run and then turn off to my left, and I open my eyes and look up in time to take the glass he’s extending. Raising it shakily, I take a mouthful, swish, and spit. Peeta rifles through cabinets and comes up with a bottle of mouthwash. I use it, not caring who else’s mouth might have been on the rim. Then I pull myself up enough to lean back against the side of the bathtub. 

Peeta reaches across to flush the toilet and hands me a damp washcloth, which I use to wipe my mouth, then carefully fold over to press over the rest of my face to try to cool it down. Peeta sits next to me on the floor, only an inch or two away. 

“Better?” he asks. 

“A little,” I say. 

I feel lightheaded, but not the way I did before, from the alcohol. My throat still burns, even after the water and the mouthwash. And I keep thinking about what I just did to Cray—keep seeing the way his head snapped back as the heel of my hand connected with his face. My right hand squeezes into a fist, and I force my fingers to relax. 

“How did you know to come look for me?” I ask Peeta, looking at my hands instead of him. 

“It was Madge. She said—she sent me after you.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I leave it alone, because thinking about why Madge assumed I’d need help . . . it might overwhelm me completely. 

“Well, thanks,” I say, and Peeta laughs a little. 

I look at him; the side of his mouth is turned up wryly. 

“You didn’t actually need much help.” 

“Still,” I say, and mean it. 

Closing my eyes, I let my head drop to his shoulder. He stiffens slightly, but I’m too wrung out to care. Then he relaxes again, and after a moment I feel his fingers tentatively slide through the hair at my temple, smoothing it back from where it’s fallen across my face. 

A sob bubbles up suddenly in my chest, and then somehow his arms are around me and my face is buried in the side of his neck. My hands are clenched in his shirt, and even as the horror and desperation and grief swamp me I can feel the warmth of his body all around me, and I’m glad, that it’s him. That he’s the one seeing me break apart like this. 

“Katniss,” he whispers, sounding awed, but doesn’t say anything else, just lets me cry. 

When I’m done I take a last deep breath and pull back, wiping my face. 

His hand touches my cheek, and I brace myself as I meet his eyes, expecting to see pity. All I see is honest concern. 

“Hey,” he says, thumb brushing away a tear I missed. 

I smile back fleetingly. 

For a moment, he looks undecided about something, and then he takes a breath, letting his hand fall. He asks, “Do you—do you want to get out of here?” 

“Yeah,” I answer, then stutter out a laugh. “ _Fuck_ yeah.” 

He grins back. 

// 

Cray is gone when we pass back through the bedroom. I couldn’t care less where; I’m just glad I don’t have to look at him again. 

Peeta and I get a few looks, a few whispers, as we go down the stairs and out the side door, but it could as easily be because Peeta is holding my hand as because they know what happened upstairs with Cray. And it could be the pictures, still, of course. Those stupid, stupid pictures. Already, they seem so long ago. 

Peeta texts Madge as soon as we get to his car. “Didn’t want her to worry,” he says, as he tucks away his phone, starts the car, and pulls away from the curb. 

I’m grateful he thought of it. 

“Is she okay alone?” I ask, remembering, belatedly, that we came together. 

“She’s with Gale,” Peeta says, and it surprises me enough to ask, “How’d that happen?” 

He looks uncomfortable. “One of us had to stay with her,” he says. 

Most of town is dark as we drive through, except for the streetlights and the occasional headlights of another car. It’s only a few quiet minutes before I see the sign for Peeta’s family’s bakery on the right, and Peeta pulls into the parking lot. 

The bakery is dark, as is the rest of the building that houses it—unsurprising for after 11 pm on a Friday night. Peeta drives around the back and right up to an assuming door in a row of a half-dozen wide-spaced, unassuming doors. It’s marked “Mellark’s Bakery” in faded gray letters. 

I stand silently behind him as he unlocks the deadbolt and the bottom lock in quick, practiced succession, then follow him as he moves through the dark, flipping on lights as the kitchen is illuminated piece by piece. The room isn’t huge but the ceilings are high; it feels like a warehouse. Peeta goes straight to the big stainless steel fridge and takes out a plate covered with tinfoil, followed by a jug of whole milk. 

“Have a seat,” he says over his shoulder as he reaches up into the cabinet and pulls down two glasses. 

I settle onto a stool on one side of a long metal counter, and after a few moments, Peeta joins me, carrying the plate and two glasses of milk. He pushes one glass, and a fork he produces from his back pocket, across the counter. I lift the glass, fingers slipping slightly on the condensation that’s already collected on the outside, while he takes the tinfoil off the plate. 

The milk is cold, so cold there are pieces of ice floating at the top, and it stings my throat a little as I swallow it down. And when I return the glass to the counter, I see why he brought milk. On the plate is massive slice of chocolate cake. 

“Dig in,” Peeta says, grabbing a bit himself with his fork, and I do, more slowly, carefully portioning off a small cross-section. I can’t remember the last time I had cake that didn’t come single-serve in a store-brand wrapper. 

The cake is rich and fudgy even chilled, from the dense, dark chocolate frosting to the perfectly moist layers. An embarrassing noise escapes me as my first bite dissolves on my tongue. 

Peeta ducks his head as he smiles, maybe trying to hide it, but I see it anyway. He looks pleased that I like it, and I feel heat suffusing my face and warmth in my chest. 

“This is amazing,” I say softly, and I mean the cake and I also mean what he’s done for me tonight—bringing me here, being with me earlier. 

“I’m glad you like it. It’s my favorite thing we make.” 

He turns that smile my direction, and my belly pulls tight. He’s so close—just a few inches away, the way we’re both bent over the plate. His eyes are bright blue and crinkled in pleasure at the corners. 

“Prim’s sick,” I blurt out, and the crinkles go away as Peeta’s eyes widen. “She’s got—the doctors think it might be cancer. Leukemia.” 

“Katniss,” Peeta breathes out, and I feel tears prickle again behind my eyes. 

I haven’t told Gale, or Madge; I don’t know why I tell him. It’s the first time I’ve even let myself think the words, much less say them. But it’s a relief, if only because I’ve been holding them in for so long. Even though I don’t know how Peeta will react.

 Gale would be angry. At God, or fate, for making Prim sick. Madge would be sympathetic. She would sit with me quietly while I felt whatever I needed to feel, because that is how we support each other—not with words, but with our presence. 

Peeta’s first thought is for Prim. 

“She must be so scared,” Peeta says, and my heart clenches. “You all must be so scared.” 

I take another bite of cake to avoid his eyes. I _am_ scared. I’m terrified. And Prim—she must be, too. But I don’t know, really, what she’s feeling. Because I haven’t been there. Because I’ve been avoiding her, and home, the same way I’ve been avoiding thinking about what the doctor told our mother. 

I’ve worried about parties and _Cray_ and whether or not Peeta likes me, just to keep myself from falling apart completely. But none of that matters. Not compared to losing Prim. 

The cake turns suddenly tasteless in my mouth. But I force myself to finish chewing, then swallow, anyway. Then I lay my fork down carefully, and look back at Peeta. He’s still just watching me, waiting, not saying a word. 

“Show me the rest of the bakery,” I suggest, voice only cracking a little. 

He lets me change the subject, though his eyes are worried. And as he gives me a tour, I let myself not think for just a little while longer.

 // 

It’s 2 AM before Peeta drives me home. He puts the car in park at the curb instead of just idling, and turns off the headlights. He glow from the streetlamps illuminates his profile and the way his fair falls, curling slightly, over his forehead. He looks over at me and I feel myself start to flush. It feels like the kind of scene you see in the movies, where the boy is dropping the girl off after a date. 

“Do you want me to . . .” Peeta gestures toward the building, and I shake my head. 

“It isn’t far.” 

“I’ll wait here just in case,” he says, “to make sure you get in okay.” 

I roll my eyes, but I guess I don’t hate the idea of him being out there, watching out for me. 

 “Hey, Katniss,” he says, as I turn to open the door, and feel his tentative touch on the back of my hand. I turn back to look at him, and he laces his fingers through mine. I let him. 

“See you in the morning.” 

I nod; he squeezes my hand once, then lets go. And when I leave the car he keeps his promise. He stays there, at the curb, until I am inside. 

When I crawl into bed a few minutes later, Prim stirs and opens her eyes. She smiles at me sleepily. “Katniss.” 

“Hey, little duck,” I say softly. 

She turns to face me, curling her body in towards mine. I mirror her posture, our foreheads almost touching. Her small body radiates heat next to mine beneath the covers. 

“How are you feeling?” I whisper. 

“Okay, I guess,” she says back. “Are you going to come with me and Mom for the biopsy on Monday?” 

My heart breaks a little, that doesn’t already know the answer. 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, and she smiles, though her eyes are already shut again, her breathing starting to even out. 

I reach out and brush the stray hairs from where they’ve settled on her cheek, then kiss her gently on the forehead. 

“’M glad you’re home,” she murmurs, and I fall asleep with unshed tears damp in my eyes but knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. 


	22. Twenty-two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in my original outline, there was kissing at the end of last chapter. But that . . . didn’t work out, obviously. (Probably for the best; it belatedly occurred to me that this would not have been the first time I’d used emotional trauma and throwing up in a bathroom as a relationship catalyst in a fanfic. Which is a little disturbing.) It just didn’t feel right, yet. Like, I totally understand now why it took a couple of arena fights to the death to get these two together in the series.
> 
> But that means that the rest of my outline needed (needs, still) a lot of tinkering. And it's taking awhile. So I guess what I’m trying to say is: Thanks for your patience! I’ll be continuing to test it. But I promise not to just leave the story hanging indefinitely. :)

The next morning I am, for the very first time in my life, hung over. 

I drag myself up and out to catch the bus anyway, and get to school only a couple minutes late. The front doors are opened, and Peeta’s already sitting in the usual row of the auditorium when I stumble in. 

He glances at me with sympathy as I drop down into the seat next to him—it’s not like the remnants of my hangover are subtle—and passes me a glazed roll. I accept it without a fuss, and take a bite. The inside is still slightly warm and gooey and bright with cinnamon. I give Peeta a thumbs up, and he grins. 

There’s something different about the way we are with each other this morning. I’d thought I’d be awkward, after the things I said to him last night, and what he saw, but I feel . . . more comfortable. Maybe because, even with everything that happened yesterday, he’s not acting any differently. 

“I’ve got pain killers if you need them,” he says, voice carefully soft, and I shake my head before I remember how risky an idea that is. It doesn’t hurt as bad as it would have an hour ago. 

“Took some before I left home,” I say. Prim’s been taking them; our mother brought them home from work that week, and I’d swallowed two this morning along with my guilt. “But, uh—thanks.” 

When Ms. Trinket sings out, “Good morning!” from the door by the stage, I wince. Too loud. And then when the spotlight comes up on the stage, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from whimpering. 

“For fuck’s sake, Effie,” Haymitch bitches as he passes us. The way he’s moving, it looks like he’s in worse shape than I am. “Turn the lamps down a few before all our retinas burn off. We’re not trying to blind the two of ‘em.” 

Haymitch, I note with both jealousy and irritation, is wearing sunglasses. 

When he gets to the stage, he glances back at us, then lifts his sunglasses up a little and squints. I can see the bags under his eyes, bloodshot as usual, from here. “Everdeen, you look like shit,” he says frankly. 

It actually hurts to glare. “Good to see you too,” I mutter instead, sliding down a little in my seat. Peeta pats my hand. 

The day’s task is a test. On the one hand, at least it means a lot of quiet. On the other, it means I have to at least try to focus. Ms. Trinket hands us each a booklet, a scantron sheet, and two number 2 pencils, and sends us to opposite sides of the auditorium. It seems a little like overkill; two seats would have been enough to prevent cheating. 

We have forty-five minutes to answer all the questions. They aren’t mindless, but they also aren’t as hard as I would have expected, for a competition: typical end of grade stuff, reading comprehension, basic math, though there are plenty of questions in the latter I don’t understand, and a few in the former probably get wrong. 

Ms. Trinket collects our scantron sheets at the end and takes them to the office to run them through the school’s scantron machine, leaving Haymitch to talk to us about good study habits. But Haymitch just digs a flask out of his pocket, takes a swallow, then leans back against the stage, eyes already closed. 

It seems like a pretty good idea to me, and I’m about to do the same when Peeta asks, cautiously, “Are you okay?” 

Haymitch snorts, not even bothering to open his eyes. “I’m fine. Or did you _want_ to listen to a lecture on good study habits?” 

“No,” I say quickly. 

“But—“ Peeta says. 

“The academic component is bullshit,” Haymitch says. 

Which is pretty much what I’d assumed from the start, but Peeta seems irritated. “Ms. Trinket said our scores mattered.” 

”Sure they do,” Haymitch says. “But all you have to do is hit the minimum score requirement. And since neither of you are as dumb as you look, just don’t fall asleep or start filling in random answers, and you’ll be fine.” 

Peeta’s brow, I notice, is furrowed. He doesn’t look upset exactly. Just thoughtful. “So this competition is kind of one big lie,” he says, and Haymitch opens his eyes long enough to shoot a finger gun at Peeta and say, “Bingo.” 

“So what should we be doing until Ms. Trinket comes back?” Peeta asks, when Haymitch doesn’t continue 

“Braid each other’s hair, what do I care?” Haymitch says. “Just stop _talking_ to me.”

Peeta does, for few minutes. Honestly, I’m grateful; my head isn’t pounding the way it was earlier, but I still feel worn out and fragile—from the week, if not from the alcohol. I follow Haymitch’s lead and close my eyes, curling up best I can in the hard auditorium seat. 

I’m almost asleep, actually, when Peeta asks, quietly, “Is it all rigged?” 

Haymitch growls, “Did you not hear what I said about _talking_?” 

“I heard,” Peeta says. “Is the competition rigged?” 

“The whole fucking _world_ is rigged,” Haymitch snaps. “Now shut _up_ and leave me alone or I _will_ give you a lecture on study habits.” 

Peeta’s quiet again after that. Thinking about what Haymitch said, I guess. The idea that the world is rigged is not exactly a new one for me, so I just close my eyes again to wait for Ms. Trinket’s return. 

When Ms. Trinket does come back, she’s beaming. “This is a _wonderful_ start,” she tells us cheerily as she toddles down the aisle. “Wonderful, wonderful. An excellent base on which to build!” 

She hands us each a set of papers stapled together. Mine is thicker than Peeta’s. 

“What are these?” I ask. 

“Why, your individualized study guides, of course! I’m _sure_ Haymitch mentioned them.” 

I look at Haymitch. He’s grinning; it’s even creepier with his eyes shut. He could at least have told us what Ms. Trinket was expecting us to know. 

Ms. Trinket hasn’t stopped talking. “I’ve used the practice test to isolate your strengths and weakness, and these guides will help you refine the first while shoring up the latter in time for the official test. They’re also an excellent way to prepare for the SATs!” 

Of course they are. At least that means they won’t be a total waste of time, I guess—presuming Haymitch was telling the truth about not having to do more than pass the pageant’s test. I just don’t know when I’ll be able to fit more studying in. Grudgingly, I fold the pages up and stick them in my bag and brace myself for whatever else Ms. Trinket has to say. 

//

When we’re finally released, Peeta offers me a ride into town like usual, but I turn him down. I need to go home to sleep for a few more hours before work. And I want to spend some time with Prim.

Peeta and I walk out together anyway; I head for the bus stop and Peeta just . . . comes with me. Convincing him not to doesn’t seem worth the energy, and he’s not trying to talk to me. He just seems to want to be there. So I let him. 

Probably it’s the hangover, but being here felt even more pointless than usual. Study guides for a test that didn’t really matter. Two-plus hours I could have been sleeping, or studying for a test that _did_ matter. Two hours I could have spent with Prim. 

“Why are you doing this?” I ask him abruptly as we reach the bus stop. “Not—walking. I mean the whole pageant thing.” 

Peeta shrugs. “To avoid suspension?” 

“No, seriously,” I say. 

“You really want me to answer that?” he asks, glancing at me with a strangely wistful-looking smile. 

I frown. “I asked, didn’t I?” 

“Well. You,” he says. 

The casualness of the answer feels nervous and forced, and I stare at my hands. Right. I’d almost managed to forget. 

“Sorry,” he says softly, when I don’t say anything. 

I shake my head. “No I asked. It’s—that’s fine.” 

Part of me, I’m ashamed to admit, wants to know more. Wants to know why I’d be a reason for anything. Wants to know if he thinks it was worth it, giving up all those Wednesdays and Saturdays. 

“What about you?” Peeta asks, startling me.

“What?” 

“Why are you doing it?” 

 _Prim_ , I almost say without thinking. _For Prim_. For her to go to college, and become a doctor, and help people. Because it’s what she wants. 

But I can’t imagine Prim going to college now. Not if the biopsy comes back positive. $50,000? It would have been enough to send her to school—maybe a good one, with enough financial aid—but if the biopsy comes back positive . . . 

All that money sounded like so much a few weeks ago. So much _possibility_. Now I’m remembering how much just a normal doctor’s visit costs. How many of Prim’s medical bills would $50,000 cover? Would it even make a dent? 

All of a sudden, getting that $50,000 feels important—really, actually, _incredibly_ important. I am hyper aware of the study booklets in my bag. I need to start taking this _seriously_. 

“For the money,” I say finally, grimly. Thankfully, Peeta doesn’t ask me to say any more. He just gives me a soft smile, and tells me, before he goes, that he’ll see me on Monday.


End file.
